THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


GLIMPSES    OF    NATURE 


BY 


ANDREW   WILSON,  F.R.S.E.,  F.L.S. 

LATELY    LECTURER    ON    ZOOLOGY,  EDINBURGH    MEDICAL   SCHOOL 
AND   EXAMINER,  FACULTY   OF   MEDICINE,  UNIVERSITY   OF   GLASGOW 

COMBE    LECTURER    ON    HEALTH 
LECTURER    TO    THE   GILCHRIST   EDUCATIONAL    TRUST 


WITH   THIRTY-FIVE  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN    SQUARE 
189  I 


M372167 


\ 


TO 


BEST    OF    FRIENDS 


PREFACE. 

THE  papers  which  compose  the  present  volume  are 
reprinted  from  the  Illustrated  London  News,  to  whose 
proprietors  I  have  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  which 
permits  me  to  reproduce  some  of  my  contributions  to 
its  pages.  The  book  really  owes  its  origin  to  the 
suggestion  of  the  late  Mr.  J.  L.  Latey,  the  genial 
editor  of  the  News,  whose  memory  will  be  kept  green 
by  many  another  contributor  besides  my  humble  self. 
Mr.  Latey  had  frequently  been  asked  if  the  papers 
entitled  "  Science  Jottings "  were  likely  to  be  re- 
printed, while  I  myself  have  also  received  numerous 
inquiries  to  the  same  effect.  I  trust,  therefore,  I 
may  find  myself  in  the  happy  position  of  an  author 
whose  book  is  anticipated  in  some  quarters,  and 
whose  labours,  despite  their  shortcomings,  are  certain 
of  a  welcome  from  the  known  friends,  and  still  more 
from  the  many  unknown  friends,  whom  I  am  privileged 
to  address  week  by  week  in  the  "  Science  Jottings " 
of  the  News.  It  is  late  in  the  day  to  apologise  for 
presenting  a  series  of  popular  science  papers  for  public 
approval.  May  I  add,  however,  that  the  articles 


viii  PREFACE. 

included  in  this  volume  in  no*  sense  lay  any  preten- 
sions to  fulness  of  detail  ?  They  are  intended  to 
be  suggestive  rather  than  informatory ;  and  as  such, 
may  perchance  serve  to  whet  the  appetite  of  my 
readers  for  more  solid  and  more  extensive  knowledge 
of  the  fair  world  in  which  we  dwell.  One  can  surely 
hope  for  no  higher  result  for  his  labours,  than  that 
they  may  be  instrumental  in  stimulating  thought, 
and  in  inducing  a  closer  acquaintance  with  Nature 
in  her  ever-varying  moods  and  tenses — a  study 
wherein  the  wisest  of  men  have  found  comfort  in 
sorrow,  and  a  grateful  relief  from  the  ills  and  worries 
with  which  human  existence  is  apt  to  be  afflicted. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.    SEA-ACORNS I 

II.    THE    NIGHT    LIGHTS   OF   THE   SEA 7 

III.  BUILDERS    IN   THE    SAND 12 

IV.  OYSTERS l8 

V.    LOBSTERS 24 

VI.    SPIDERS 3° 

VII.    STARS   AT    LAMLASH 35 

VIII.    A   CUTTLE-BONE 42 

IX.    A   CURIOUS  COLONY 49 

X.    A   BIT    OF   SPONGE 54 

XI.    "THE   KING   OF   FISHES  " 60 

XII.    STARFISHES 65 

XITI.    SEA-URCHINS 7* 

XIV.    SOME   MIXED    RELATIONSHIPS 77 

XV.    A   REMARKABLE   HISTORY  .  .  .  .  -83 

XVI.    A   DISPLAY   OF   ENERGY 88 

XVII.    SOME   PLANT   GROUNDLINGS 94 

XVIIl.    SOME   CURIOUS  WAYS   OF   PLANTS 99 

XIX.    THE   FERTILITY    OF    NATURE 104 

XX.    DANDELION    DOWN IO9 

XXI.    THE   MISTLETOE  BOUGH 1 14 

XXII.    HOLLY    BERRIES                                                                      .           .           .  I2O 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XXIII.  SOME    MICROSCOPIC    FRIENDS 125 

XXIV.  SOME    MICROSCOPIC    MUMMIES       .           .            .            .            .  130 
XXV.    THE   WORKERS    OF   THE    BODY 135 

XXVI.    GERMS  :    GOOD   AND    BAD 140 

XXVII.    A   CONFUSING    CASE 145 

XXVIII.    FLIES 150 

XXIX.    A   GOOD   STARVE 155 

XXX.    OTHER   SENSES   THAN    OURS l6o 

XXXI.    SOMETHING   NEW   ABOUT   THE   EAR      .  .  .  .165 

XXXII.    NOISE 171 

XXXIII.  THE    PROBLEM    OF   LIFE 176 

XXXIV.  WHAT   IS    MESMERISM? iSl 

XXXV.    THE   CASE   OF   COLONEL   TOWNSHEND  .  .  .  1 86 

XXXVI.    THE   SPLEEN 19 1 

XXXVII.    THE  TONGUE  AND   SPEECH 196 

XXXVIII.    TOWN    LIFE   AND    ITS   EFFECTS 2OI 

XXXIX.    A  RAINY   DAY 206 

XL.    THE   LESSONS    OF   A   QUARRY 211 

XLI.    THE   STORY   OF   THE    ISLANDS        .  .  .  .  .  2l6 

XL1I.    THE    LIFE   OF    ISLANDS 221 

XLIII.    A   CORNER   OF   KENT 226 

XLIV.    THE   INROADS   OF   THE  SEA 231 

XLV.    THE   GROTTOES   OF   HAN 236 

XLVI.    COAL   AT   DOVER 242 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 


1.  Balanus  porcatus  :  an  Acorn-shell,  seen  from  top  ...         2 

2.  Balanus  Hameri :  a  Sea-Acorn  viewed  from  the  side      .         .         3 

3.  Development  of  Crustaceans          .         .         .         .         .         .         5 

4.  Noctiluca     ........-•        10 

5.  Terebella  and  its  tube 13 

6.  Sabella  and  its  tube,  showing  the  plume-like  gills .         .         .16 

7.  Dahlia  Wartlet  Anemone  ( Tealia  crassicornis}        .         .         .19 

8.  Joints  of  Lobster's  Body 26 

9.  Diagram  of  Lobster      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         «       25 

10.  Crinoid        ..........       36 

11.  Rosy  Feather  Star,  and  stalked  young 39 

12.  Cuttlefish  shells 43 

13.  Octopi  or  "Devil-fishes" 44 

14.  Pearly  Nautilus  Shell 46 

1 5.  Spirula  and  its  shell      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -47 

1 6.  A  "Sea-fir" 5° 

17.  Sea-fir,  largely  magnified,  showing  cups  and  egg-capsule        .       51 

18.  Development  of  a  Sponge  (Olynthus)    .....       55 

19.  Starfishes     ..........       67 

20.  An  Echinus  climbing  on  glass  of  an  aquarium        .         .         -73 

21.  Gall  insect  (Cynips  kollari) 79 

22.  Galls  on  oak-leaf :  " spangles"  and  " button  galls "       .         .       81 

23.  Fern-frond  :    Woodsia  ilvensis       ......       97 

24.  Dandelion  Down          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .no 

25.  Mistletoe  (  Viscum  album}  flower  and  fruit     .         .         .         .116 

26.  White  Corpuscles  of  the  Blood 127 

27.  Rotifer:  Male 132 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

FIG.  PAGE 

28.  Rotifer:  Female 132 

29.  Saccharomyccs  cerevisia        .         .         .         .         .         .         .141 

30.  Bacillus  anthracis        ........      143 

31.  Volvox 147 

32.  The  Common  House-fly  (enlarged)        .         .         .         .  153 

33.  The  Ear  in  Vertical  Section          .         .         .         .  .166 

34.  The  Inner  Ear 169 

35.  Cave  into  which  the  Lesse  disappears  .  238 


GLIMPSES    OF    NATURE. 


i. 


YESTERDAY,  as  I  came  from  my  dip  in  the  sea,  I  had 
to  scramble  barefooted  over  a  ledge  of  rock  to  the 
safe  haven  wherein  I  had  deposited  the  suits  and 
trappings  of  the  outer  man.  The  surface  of  the 
rock,  which  appeared  so  smooth  viewed  from  a  dis- 
tance, was,  in  reality,  a  veritable  place  of  torture, 
for  it  was  studded  with  small  sharp  shells,  contact 
with  which  rendered  my  scramble  somewhat  of  a 
penitential  pilgrimage  in  its  nature.  The  candid 
friend  who  heard  my  plaint  was  immediately  pre- 
pared with  a  hundred  questions  regarding  not  only 
the  nature  of  these  shells,  which  encrust  the  rocks 
everywhere,  but  concerning  the  "  use  "  or  useless- 
ness  of  such  minute  and  feeble  folk  in  the  world  at 
all.  There  is  much  difficulty  experienced  at  times  in 
replying  to  commonplace  questions.  What  the  shells 
are,  is  a  matter  easily  enough  disposed  of;  what  use 
they  may  subserve  in  the  world  at  large,  is  a  point 
not  so  easily  determined. 

After   all,    is    this   question    of   "use"   really   one 
which  need  concern  us  greatly  in  our  studies  of  life  ? 


2  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

I  trow  not ;  for  it  surely  indicates  by  no  means  a 
lofty  conception  of  things  if  we  are  perpetually  to 
speak  and  think  of  living  beings  as  we  should  talk  of 
the  items  in  a  store.  Each  organism,  like  the  smith 
in  "The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth/'  fights  for  its  own 
hand  in  the  struggle  for  existence.  If  in  the  course 
of  its  fight,  it  aids  or  opposes  the  interests  of  other 
living  things,  it  will  receive  benefit  or  incur  failure  in 
a  meed  corresponding  to  its  own  ways  and  means. 
This  is  really  the  true  philosophy  of  natural  history 
study.  To  "  consider  the  lilies "  as  if  they  were 
mere  contrivances  for  human  ends  and  "  uses "  is  a 
tolerably  small-minded  fashion  of  regarding  the  chil- 
dren of  life.  To  know  something  of  their  histories, 
structure,  and  relationships,  and  thereby  to  learn  how 
life  jogs  along  its  primrose  way  (or  the  reverse),  is 
in  itself  an  education  worth  much  seeking  after  and 
much  painstaking  care. 

A  truce  to  philosophy,  however.      On   a  piece  of 
stone  close  by  I  discern  a  colony  of  these  encrusting 
shells.     Into  the  pool  I  drop  the  stone  and  its  tenants. 
Watch  what  happens.      The  upper 
end  of  each  little  shell  (fig.  i)  un- 
closes,   as  does   a   trap-door,    and 
forth  issues  a  set  of  " feelers,"  which 
remind    you    of    delicate    feathery 
plumes.       Now,     backwards     and 
forwards  in  the  water  wave  these 
Plumes,   expanding   to   the   full   in 
l'  sTeiffrom"          their  outward  movement,  and  then 
the  top.  gracefully    folding    inwards,    as    a 

preliminary  to  their  next  and  succeeding  sweep. 

These  plumes,  moreover,  you  would  find,  on  micro- 
scopic examination,  to   be  abundantly  provided  with 


SB  A -A  CORNS. 


hairs,  converting  them  into  veritable  brushes,  which, 
like  the  proverbial  broom  of  Mrs.  Partington,  are 
really  employed  in  sweeping  the  waters.  You  can 
guess  the  use  of  these  plumes,  though  you  may  not 
so  readily  arrive  at  a  first  conception  of  their  nature. 
They  are  the  commissariat  officials  of  the  sea-acorn's 
economy — for  under  this  name  you  must  know  the 
shells  which  encrust  the  rocks,  stones,  and  oysters 
everywhere.  By  aid  of  its  "  feelers,"  the  sea-acorn 
sweeps  into  its  mouth  the  food-particles  on  which  it 
lives. 

A  most  effective  brush  must  these  plumes  con- 
stitute, seeing  that  they  number  some  twenty-four  in 
all,  each  of  the  original  twelve  being  double  in  nature. 
It  is  more  than  probable  that  these  organs,  forming 
what  has  been  named 
the  "  glass  hand  "  of  the 
sea-acorn,  also  serve  for 
breathing  purposes,  al- 
though inside  the  shell 
we  certainly  light  upon 
structures  believed  to  re- 
present gills.  Still,  from 
their  incessant  waving  in 
the  clear  water,  and  from 
the  obvious  opportunity 
thus  afforded  of  bring- 
ing the  blood  of  our 
acorn  in  contact  with  the  vivifying  oxygen  of  the  sea, 
we  may  assume  with  safety  that  the  plumes  of  the 
"glass-hand"  play  a  part,  at  least,  in  renewing  the 
vital  fluid  of  the  miniature  frame. 

I    tap    lightly    on    the    stone    which    contains    our 
colony  of  sea- acorns,  and  in  a  moment  you  observe 


Fig.  2. — Balanus  Hameri :  a  Sea- 
Acorn  viewed  from  the  side. 


4  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

each  set  of  plumes  is  withdrawn,  while  the  trap-doors 
of  the  shell  are  closed  with  something  which  reminds 
you  of  a  defiant  snap.  This  observation,  then,  proves 
to  us  that  the  acorn  possesses  means  for  maintaining 
relations  with  the  outer  world — or,  in  plain  language, 
that  it  includes  a  nervous  system  among  its  personal 
belongings.  If  you  could  dissect  the  body  com- 
pletely, you  would  find  comprised  within  the  shell  a 
perfect  digestive  system  for  the  assimilation  of  food. 
We  cannot  presume  to  gauge  perfection  of  organs  by 
the  standard  of  size  in  the  world  of  life,  and  the  sea- 
acorn  race  illustrates  this  contention  in  an  apt  fashion. 
Nor  can  you  argue  that  simplicity  of  structure  always 
means  lowness  of  origin,  for  the  history  of  how  your 
sea-acorn  came  to  be  what  it  is,  proves  the  necessity 
for  our  looking  backward  as  well  as  forward  in  the 
matter  of  living  histories. 

Sea-acorns  are  in  reality  poor  relations  of  the 
barnacles  which  you  have  seen  coating  the  sides  of 
ships  in  the  graving-dock.  The  barnacle  possesses 
a  stalk,  while  the  acorns  want  that  appendage;  and 
therein  lies  the  principal  difference  betwixt  the  races. 
But  both  acorn  and  barnacle  in  turn  show  relation- 
ships to  other  and  widely  different  animals.  That 
crab  which  you  see  perambulating  in  the  pool  in  his 
own  lop-sided  fashion  is  an  aristocrat  of  the  barnacle 
class.  So  also  is  the  lobster,  and  the  shrimp,  and 
the  other  shelled  animals  with  legs.  How  do  I  know 
this  ?  you  inquire.  Listen,  and  you  shall  be  more 
than  satisfied  with  the  correctness  of  my  statement. 

The  sea-acorn  in  due  season  develops  eggs,  and 
these  are  liberated  from  the  parent-shell  and  sent 
forth  into  the  world  of  waters  to  start  life  on  their 
own  account.  Each  egg  develops  at  first  into  a 


SEA-ACORNS. 


5 


widely  different  animal  from  the  acorn  itself.  In  the 
days  of  its  infancy  the  sea-acorn  appears  as  a  minute 
oval  body,  possessing  a  single  eye.  A  shell  covers 
its  back ;  a  tail  appears ;  and  from  the  front  of  the 
body  there  grows  a  pair  of  feelers,  while  from  its 
sides  project  two  pairs  of  legs.  Internally  a  digestive 
system  soon  appears ;  and,  thus  provided,  the  young 
acorn  swims  merrily  through  the  sea.  Then  comes 
the  moulting  stage. 

Increase  of  growth  is  impossible  to  a  shelled  animal 


Fig,  3. — Development  of  Crustaceans. 

A  and  B  are  stages  in  Barnacle  development  :  C  and  D  are  stages  in  the 
development  of  a  lower  member  (Sacculina)  of  the  Crustacean  class. 

unless  the  old  shell  be  changed  for  a  new  one. 
Hence  the  reason  for  the  moults  which  the  infant 
animal  exhibits.  By-and-by,  a  further  stage  is  reached 
when  the  young  acorn  attains  a  still  more  perfect 
shell  composed  of  two  distinct  halves  or  pieces.  The 
front  pair  of  feelers  (a  B)  have  increased  in  size ;  but 
the  two  original  pairs  of  legs  have  been  cast  off,  and 
are  replaced  by  six  pairs  of  short,  jointed  feet.  The 
tail  also  develops  swimming  appendages ;  and  two 


6  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

eyes  succeed  the  Cyclopean  and  earlier  state  of 
things. 

In  this  condition,  the  young  acorn  exactly  resembles 
certain  of  the  adult  water-fleas ;  and  it  is  also  to  be 
noted  that  in  the  course  of  their  own  development 
the  crab  and  lobster  tribes  exhibit  stages  which 
parallel  the  condition  of  the  acorn  just  described. 

Then  the  days  of  its  youth  come  to  an  end.  The 
feelers  grow  large  and  strong  ;  and  a  cement  is  poured 
out  from  them  which  fixes  the  hitherto  free-swimming 
body  to  rock  or  shell  (fig.  3,  A.)  The  eyes  disappear, 
and  the  double  shell  vanishes  away,  to  become  re- 
placed by  the  conical  limy  structure  you  see  before 
you  on  the  stone. 

Last  of  all,  the  legs  are  changed  into  the  plumes 
or  glass-hand  of  the  adult  acorn,  which,  to  use  the 
words  of  a  great  naturalist,  is  thus  only  a  kind  of 
degenerate  crab,  fixed  head  downwards  as  we  have 
seen  in  its  shell,  and  kicking  food  with  its  legs  into 
its  mouth.  Thus  we  learn  that  to  know  an  animal  in 
reality  we  must  understand  its  becoming  as  well  as 
its  being.  The  sea-acorn's  history,  in  this  sense,  is 
a  lesson  which  holds  good  and  true  of  all  other  living 
things. 


II. 
tlbe  1FU0bt>!lLi0bts  of  tbe  Sea. 

IT  is  a  calm,  clear  night,  this,  on  which  the  good 
ship  Adelaide  lies  at  Parkeston  Quay,  Harwich, 
blowing  off  her  superfluous  energy  in  the  shape  of 
clouds  of  steam,  while  waiting  for  the  Rotterdam 
contingent  of  passengers,  who  are  being  hurried 
down  at  sixty  miles  an  hour  speed  from  Liverpool 
Street.  Presently,  there  is  a  flash  of  light  seen  now 
and  then  along  the  fen-sides  which  mark  the  near 
approach  to  Harwich,  and  with  a  muffled  roar  the 
great  engine,  followed  by  a  goodly  array  of  carriages, 
comes  to  rest  under  the  full  glare  of  the  electric 
lights  of  the  station.  Then  the  carriage-doors  open, 
and  the  vehicles  belch  forth  their  crowds,  who  hurry 
down  the  wooden  slope  to  the  quay-side. 

Forward  go  the  passengers  for  the  "  Ankwork's 
package,"  as  Mrs.  Gamp  named  the  prototype  of  the 
fine  Antwerp  steamer  of  to-day.  The  Rotterdam 
boat  lies  aft  on  the  quay.  As  I  step  on  board  and 
survey  that  crescent  moon  overhead,  which  a  short 
time  before  at  Claygate,  in  the  garden  of  Surrey, 
was  a  full  orb,  and,  as  I  contemplate  the  still  clouds 
and  the  calm  sea,  I  prophesy  an  even  keel  for  the 
Adelaide  on  her  coming  voyage  to  the  land  of  dykes. 
In  truth,  it  is  a  lovely  night;  and  when  we  have 


8  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

cast  off  our  ropes  and  hawsers,  and  go  half-speed 
ahead  round  that  curve  in  Harwich  Bay  towards  the 
open  sea,  one  may  well  be  excused  if  even  a  rhap- 
sody on  the  moonlit  sea  flowed  from  lip  or  pen. 

The  whole  seascape  is  a  nocturne  in  moonlight. 
The  twinkling  lights  of  Harwich  show  up  the  darker 
background  of  hill  and  church  spire  in  true  Rem- 
brandt fashion.  Out  in  the  bay  the  yachts  and 
ships  sleep  peacefully  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  and 
the  rays  of  each  twinkling  lantern  rise  and  fall  with 
the  swell.  Away  beyond,  in  the  sea  whither  every 
dip  of  our  paddles  carries  us  fast,  there  are  seen  the 
lightships,  each  with  its  twinkling  eye  that  gleams 
luminous  for  a  moment  and  then  vanishes  away  with 
the  regularity  of  an  unvarying  mechanism. 

The  deck  is  still  and  quiet,  although  there  is  noisy 
clatter  of  knives  and  forks  in  the  saloon  below.  On 
the  steamer's  bridge  you  can  discern  three  or  four 
dark  figures — those  of  our  guides  through  the  deep. 
Soon  things  settle  down  to  a  still  more  monotonous 
state  than  before.  Save  for  the  throbs  of  the 
engines,  and  the  occasional  rattle  of  the  steam  steer- 
ing gear,  all  is  at  rest,  and  the  good  ship  ploughs 
her  way  easily  over  the  calm  waters  of  the  sea. 

One  may  sit  on  the  paddle-box  on  this  autumn 
night  revelling  in  the  beauty  of  the  seascape  around. 
Far  away,  the  lightships  continue  their  mechanical 
illumination  of  the  deep ;  but  as  you  glance  over  the 
ship's  side  into  the  sea  you  become  aware  that  the 
lights  of  man's  contriving  are  not  the  only  illumina- 
tions which  meet  the  eye  to-night.  Watch  the  waves 
which  spring  into  existence  as  the  bow  of  the  steamer 
ploughs  the  main.  A  long  crest  of  foam  passes  away 
at  a  wide  angle  from  the  bow,  and  loses  itself  in  the 


THE  NIGHT-LIGHTS  OF  THE  SEA.  9 

wash  of  the  paddles  behind.  What  is  that  strange 
gleam  of  light  which  ever  and  anon  you  see  tipping 
the  foam-crest  with  a  weird  effulgence  and  an  uncanny 
gleam  ? 

As  the  moon  passes  behind  a  cloud,  and  the  night 
grows  darker  for  the  obscuring  of  the  Queen  of  Night, 
this  strange  light  on  the  waves  literally  glows  with  its 
fiery  sheen.  You  are  fortunate  to-night  in  that  you 
can  see  this  tl  phosphorescence  of  the  sea/'  as  it  is 
named,  in  all  its  splendour.  Look  how  every  fleck 
of  spray  seems  tinged  with  a  radiance  as  of  jewelled 
kind.  Flashes  of  lambent  fire  play  among  the  foam, 
and  now  and  then  a  long  ripple  of  flame  shoots  along 
the  whole  course  of  the  wave  that  rushes  aft  from 
the  bow. 

Suppose  you  could  lift  a  bucket  of  water  from  the 
sea  to-night,  and  that  in  your  deck-cabin  you  had 
your  microscope  in  full  array,  let  us  endeavour  to 
see  what  such  a  scrutiny  of  the  waves  would  tell  us 
about  the  cause  of  the  phosphorescence  of  the  deep. 
The  water  would  be  seen  to  be  alive  with  animalcules, 
each  the  mere  fraction  of  an  inch  in  length.  Closely 
studied,  each  animalcule — the  Noctiluca  by  name — is 
in  shape  not  unlike  a  bean.  It  is  curved  or  convex 
on  its  outer  margin,  while  on  the  inner  side  it  is 
concave  and  deeply  indented. 

On  the  hollowed  side  it  bears  a  single  tentacle  or 
"  feeler,"  which  is  in  active  movement.  Of  structure 
or  organisation  this  Noctiluca  possesses  little  or  none. 
It  is  an  animalcule  belonging  to  one  of  the  lowest 
grades  of  animal  life.  Its  substance  consists  of  that 
life-matter  of  which,  under  the  name  of  protoplasm, 
you  have  heard  so  much  in  days  gone  by.  It  is  a 
little  living  speck,  and  nothing  more.  Here  and 


10 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


Fig.  4.— Noctiluca. 


there  it  seems  to  exhibit  spaces  and  gaps  in  its  sub- 
stance, and  you  may  discover  traces  or  beginnings  of 
definite  tissues  in  the  soft  mass  whereof  it  consists. 

This,  then,  is  the 
Noctiluca,  which 
emphatically  con- 
stitutes the 
"  night-light"  of 
the  sea. 

Swarming  in 
myriads  in  the 
waters  of  the 
ocean,  these  ani- 
malcules, under 
favourable  con- 
ditions of  heat 
and  other  phases 
relating  to  their  vital  activity,  give  forth  the  strange 
weird  gleam  you  see  shooting  along  the  crest  of  the 
waves.  You  can  recall  Coleridge's  lines  with  apt 
force,  when  on  this  quiet  night  you  sit  and  watch  the 
play  of  phosphorescence  on  the  sea  : — 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship,  I  watched  the  water-snakes  ; 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  neared  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship,  I  watched  their  rich  attire  ; 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam,  and  every  track 
Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

How  and  why  these  and  other  animals  exhibit  a 
phosphorescent  light  is  a  problem  towards  the  solution 
of  which  science  has,  at  least,  advanced  within  reason- 
able distance.  The  Noctiluca  is  undoubtedly  the  cause 


THE  NIGHT-LIGHTS  OF  THE  SEA.  11 

of  the  diffused  phosphorescence  of  the  sea.  The 
myriads  of  animalcules  give  to  the  ocean  the  appear- 
ance of  a  universal  effulgence.  But  other  animals 
are  solitarily  phosphorescent.  Jelly-fishes,  and  their 
neighbours,  the  "  Venus's  girdles,"  show  such  a  light. 
Some  fishes  also  possess  phosphorescent  qualities ; 
and,  as  regards  insects,  our  familiar  glow-worm  has 
only  to  be  named  to  call  to  mind  an  analogous 
example  of  light-producing  powers.  The  why  and 
wherefore  of  the  phosphorescence  lies  in  a  nutshell. 

You  have  only  to  hark  back  to  a  great  and  leading 
principle  in  science  to  find  the  clue  to  the  mystery. 
That  one  force  of  Nature  can  be  transformed  into 
an  equivalent  of  another  force,  is  plain  language  of 
science.  Fire  a  bullet  at  a  target.  When  the  bullet 
hits  the  mark  its  motion  has  become  transformed  into 
an  equivalent  of  heat.  Similarly  out  of  motion  you 
may  get  electricity,  and  out  of  electrical  motion  of 
another  kind  you  may  get  light.  So  is  it  with  life 
and  living  structures.  So  much  of  vitality,  or 
life-force,  goes  to  produce  motion,  and  so  much  in 
particular  cases  (that  of  our  Noctiluca  included)  to 
produce  light.  Just  as  by  the  discharge  of  its 
nerve-force  into  its  electrical  organ,  a  species  of 
skate  produces  electricity,  and  gives  you  a  powerful 
shock  ;  so  your  animalcule,  transforming  a  modicum 
of  its  life-force  in  a  special  fashion,  gives  you  "  the 
night-light  of  the  sea." 

But  it  is  time  to  draw  rein  to  these  thoughts. 
Here  is  the  lightship  close  on  our  starboard  bow. 
"To  rest  we  repair,"  as  the  old  song  has  it;  yet  the 
animalcules  will  not  cease  their  phosphorescence,  even 
when  the  faint  rays  of  the  morning  have  brightened 
"  more  and  more  into  the  perfect  day." 


III. 
JButlt)ers  in  tbe 


THE  near  approach  of  the  winter  season  is  heralded 
this  morning  by  the  chill  east  wind  and  the  thin  ice 
which  coats  the  pools  left  by  the  receding  tide  a  few 
hours  gone  by.  To-day  we  are  strolling  along  a 
sandy  flat  of  Scottish  sea-coast,  not  far  removed 
from  that  engineering  triumph,  the  Forth  Bridge  itself. 
Pleasant  memories  of  bygone  days  revive  in  the  mind 
when  we  approach  the  "  Shell-bed  "  —  as  the  sandy 
stretch  is  termed.  One  constant  feature  of  the  beach 
has  won  for  it  the  familiar  "  Ferry  "  name.  The 
sea-line  at  high-water  mark  is  always  indicated  by 
a  clear,  glistening  line  of  shells,  whole  and  broken 
alike,  torn  from  the  sandy  depths  below,  and  brought 
up  by  the  play  of  the  waves.  I  presume  the  tides 
and  currents  of  the  bay  cast  up  the  shells  on  the 
beach  and  favour  the  formation  of  this  unbroken  and 
uniform  line  of  shell-debris. 

Beyond  this  high-  water  mark  you  come  upon  the 
sand-dunes  of  the  coast.  The  tough  grasses  which 
find  a  home  and  habitation  in  the  sand  bind  the 
loose  wind-blown  particles  together,  and  thus  aid  in 
the  work  of  land-making.  The  "  Shell-bed  "  on  the 
Firth  of  Forth  reminds  me  of  a  pleasant  prospect 
in  scenes  far  removed  from  this  Scottish  estuary. 


BUILDERS  IN  THE  SAND. 


Away  in  Devonshire,  and  stretching  from  Dawlish 
towards  Exeter,  is  such  another  sandy  beach  as  that 
which  lies  before  us  this  winter  morning.  Only, 
the  Devonshire  coast  wants  that  background  of  pines 
that  stands  out  so  prominently  against  the  light 
brown  of  the  sand.  But  for  the  funereal  setting  of 
its  firs  and  pines,  and  for  the  hills  of  Fife  in  the 
foreground,  the  Dawlish  prospect  might  be  regarded 
as  being  closely  imitated  on  these  northern  shores. 

We  descend  from  the  shelly  ridge  towards  the 
lower  confines  of  the  beach.  In  a  moment  or  two, 
we  find  ourselves  amid  the  damp 
sand  which,  cut  into  miniature 
valleys  by  the  rills  from  the  land, 
betokens  the  recent  ebb  of  the 
sea.  As  we  walk  over  the  yield- 
ing sand  we  see  the  burrows  of 
the  Solens  or  " razor-shells,"  whose 
cast-off  products  litter  the  shore 
at  the  high-water  line.  Your 
"razor-shell"  is  a  skilful  bur- 
rower,  and  by  means  of  his  fleshy 
foot  contrives  to  mine  swiftly  and 
effectively  below  the  surface  of 
the  sand,  so  that  pursuit  and 
capture,  save  by  means  of  the 
fisherman's  iron  hook,  is  a  sheer 
impossibility. 

As  we  traverse  the  beach  nearer 
still  to  the  sea,  we  notice  the 
debris  thrown  out  by  the  worms, 
which  after  airing  themselves  amid 
the  waves  when  the  tide  is  in,  turn  tail  and  tunnel 
downwards.  They  are,  in  reality,  living  tunnel- 


Teiebella  and  its  tube. 


14  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

makers,  for  they  pass  the  sand  through  their  bodies 
as  they  work  below,  and  hence  you  see  the  internal 
casts  of  their  digestive  systems  in  the  familiar  "  sand- 
worms/'  or  coils,  which  litter  the  shore.  These  are 
the  "  fairy  ropes  "  of  the  children. 

The  old  legend  of  Michael  Scott,  wizard  par 
excellence,  tells  us  how,  having  engaged  the  Evil  One 
as  a  servant,  he  found  it  a  condition  of  his  own 
safety  to  keep  his  diabolical  servitor  fully  employed. 
The  proverbial  mischief  into  which  idle  hands  are 
said  to  fall,  was  therefore  averted  by  Michael  the 
Wizard  setting  his  fiend  to  weave  ropes  out  of  the 
sea-sand ;  and  the  futile  labours  of  his  Satanic 
Majesty,  adds  the  legend,  are  to  be  seen  after  every 
receding  tide. 

There,  in  the  distance,  is  a  fisherman  digging  in 
the  sand  for  bait.  When  you  look  into  his  can  you 
see  a  wriggling  mass  of  green  and  brown  worms, 
each  with  a  big  thickened  head  and  a  narrower  body. 
This  is  the  lobworm,  dear  to  the  hearts  of  sea-fishers. 
Along  the  sides  of  its  body  you  see  the  gills  existing 
in  the  shape  of  curious  tufts,  which  are  really  com- 
plex loops  of  blood-vessels,  wherein  the  impurities 
of  worm-organisation  are  got  rid  of,  and  its  blood 
purified  by  exposure  to  the  oxygen  of  the  sea.  But 
the  "lob"  is  not  an  architect  in  any  sense.  Scan 
the  sand  around  you,  and  notice  that,  rising  from 
its  smooth  surface,  your  eye  can  detect  numberless 
feathery-like  tufts. 

You  borrow  the  fisherman's  spade,  and  remove  at 
one  operation  half-a-dozen  or  more  of  these  tufts. 
Then  when  you  single  them  out  from  among  the 
mass  with  your  fingers  you  see  that  each  tuft  is 
really  the  top  of  a  tube,  and  that  inside  this  tube 


BUILDERS  IN  THE  SAND.  15 

dwells  a  worm-tenant  which  is  doing  its  best  to 
escape  into  the  sand  by  the  lower  end  of  its  dwelling- 
place. 

This  is  the  Terebella,  a  worm  which  ranks  among 
the  most  common  of  all  the  architects  of  the  sand. 
Look  at  the  tube  closely  (Fig.  5).  Its  composition 
is  varied  enough.  It  consists  of  a  series  of  odds  and 
ends  in  the  way  of  particles,  and  the  heterogeneous 
materials  of  the  tube  account  for  the  rugged  appear- 
ance of  the  structure.  The  bulk  of  this  worm's  house 
is  built  of  grains  of  sand,  but  you  also  note  how  it 
has  seized  upon  pieces  of  broken  shells,  and  even 
minute  pebbles  as  building-stones.  These  materials 
are  all  duly  glued  together  by  means  of  a  natural 
marine  cement,  which  resists  the  action  of  the  water, 
and  defies  the  damp  to  disintegrate  the  tenement  of 
the  Terebella. 

The  tuft  at  the  top  of  the  tube,  which  is  modelled 
in  sand,  is  really  the  outer  investment  or  covering  of 
the  gills  and  feelers  which  the  head  of  the  worm 
bears.  The  gills  are  plume-like,  and  the  feelers,  or 
tentacles,  act  as  purveyors  in  the  commissariat  de- 
partment. They  sweep  food-particles  into  the  mouth, 
and  possibly  filter  from  the  sea  or  sand  around,  the 
matters  necessary  for  the  nutrition  of  the  worm- 
frame. 

But  in  our  shovelful  of  sand  there  are  worm- 
tubes  of  another  description.  You  now  disinter  a 
tube  of  smoother  and  more  regular  aspect  than  those 
of  the  Terebella.  This  second  tube  is  composed  of 
sand  particles  alone,  cemented  together  to  form  a 
symmetrical  structure,  which  impresses  us  by  contrast 
with  the  rougher  build  of  the  Terebella's  dwelling- 
place.  The  smooth  tube  (Fig.  6)  is  the  abode  of 


i6 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


the  Sabella,  another  familiar  worm- architect  of  our 
sandy  shores.  I  know  of  nothing  more  beautiful 
than  the  plume-like  gills  of  the  Sabella-worm.  They 
spring  from  its  head-extremity,  together  with  its 

feelers,  in  curved  array, 
and  present  us  with  truly 
feathery  sprays,  wherein 
the  blood  of  the  animal 
courses  in  closely-placed 
vital  streams,  to  be  ex- 
posed to  the  air  contained 
in  the  native  water  of  the 
worm. 

Extremely  sensitive  are 
these  gills  and  tentacles, 
as  you  may  demonstrate 
in  the  case  of  yet  another 
worm-architect.  On  this 
stone  I  have  picked  up  is 
a  hard,  dense  tube  of  car- 
bonate of  lime,  or,  in  plain 
language,  hard  chalk. 

This  is  the  Serpulas 
habitation.  I  place  the 
stone  and  its  tube  in  this 
rock  pool.  In  a  moment  you  see  the  beautiful  gill- 
plumes  to  be  protruded  from  the  tube,  and  to  wave 
backwards  and  forwards  in  the  water.  This  is  the 
respiratory  act  or  breathing-play  of  these  animals, 
and  the  slightest  touch  sends  the  gills  into  the  tube. 
Worm  susceptibilities  have  been  offended  by  the  pry- 
ing curiosity  of  humanity,  and  a  natural  plug  (which 
is  merely  a  thickened  tentacle)  closes  up  the  mouth 
of  the  Serpula-tube  until  such  time  as  its  denizen, 


Fig.  6. — Sabella  and  its  tube,  showing 
the  plume-like  gills 


BUILDERS  IN  THE  SAND.  17 

recovering  from  its  fright,  once  more  spreads  its  gill- 
plumes  abroad  in  the  pellucid  pool. 

The  worm-architects  teach  us  a  lesson  in  " habit" 
as  applied  to  living  nature.  Each  species  adheres  to 
its  own  way  of  life  and  materials — the  Terebella  to 
its  shells  and  particles ;  the  Sabella  to  its  sand  alone ; 
and  the  Serpula  to  its  limy  investment.  There  is 
"  more  than  meets  the  eye "  in  these  persistent  and 
regular  building  habits — more,  perchance,  than  the 
mind  can  explain  as  things  are.  But  at  least  we 
may  discover  that  what  we  call  "  habit "  in  anything, 
is  but  a  name  for  the  regular  repetition  of  ways, 
tendencies,  and  methods,  which,  at  first  of  chance 
character,  have  become  stereotyped  to  form  the  fixed 
history  of  living  things. 


IV. 


THAT  window  in  the  oyster-shop  has  always  had  a 
strange  fascination  for  me,  and  I  never  contemplate 
the  bivalves  in  its  tanks  without  a  sigh  of  regret  that 
so  much  in  the  way  of  complex  anatomy  should  glide 
over  the  human  throat  without  exciting  even  a  quiver 
to  mark  its  sense  of  the  social  barbarity  to  which  it 
has  been  subjected.  It  is  curious,  too,  to  note  how 
different  are  the  feelings  with  which  we  of  these 
islands  regard  two  nearly  related  molluscs  —  the  oyster 
and  the  snail. 

For  the  former  we  pay  down  cheerfully  our  two- 
and-six  or  three-and-six  per  dozen  on  Mrs.  Driver's 
counter,  while  the  dainty,  vegetable-  feeding  snail 
(costing  us,  as  imported,  nothing  like  such  prices)  is 
eschewed  as  a  continental  culinary  and  gastronomic 
eccentricity.  I  suppose  it  always  will  be  so  in  the 
matter  of  our  food.  We  are  terribly  insular  in  a 
dietetic  sense.  I  do  not  aspire  to  the  free  ideas  of 
John  Chinaman,  who  despises  nothing  which  is  edible, 
and  to  whom  a  rat  or  a  dog  may  come  with  equal 
relish  as  does  his  trepang  or  bird's  nest  (for  soup)  ; 
but  I  do  contend  we  might  enlarge  our  daily  bill 
of  fare  with  great  advantage  to  health  and  pocket 
alike. 


OYSTERS.  19 

In  my  many  journeyings  to  and  fro  over  the  sur- 
face of  the  earth  it  is  my  lot  to  sojourn  frequently 
at  hotels.  I  find  the  British  waiter  has  invented  a 
shibboleth  which  in  the  matter  of  breakfast  is  repeated 
over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  Inquire 
what  there  may  be  ready  to  offer  you  for  the  first 
meal  of  the  day,  and  you  are  answered  at  hotel  No. 
I,  "  Chop-fish  -steak  -ham  -and  -eggs,  sir!"  At  hotel 
No.  2  it  is,  "  Fish  -chop  -steak  -ham  -and  -eggs,  sir!" 


CM\  P.IFFLE 
Fig'  7. — Dahlia  Wartlet  Anemone  (Tealia  crassicornis}, 

At  No.  3  it  varies  like  the  same  old  chimes — "  Steak- 
fish -chop -ham -and -eggs,  sir!" — and  so  on,  from 
Land's  End  to  John  o'  Groat's,  the  refrain  ceaseth 
never. 

What  this  plaint  of  mine  has  to  do  with  oysters 
may  not,  I  confess,  be  apparent  all  at  once ;  but  my 
logical  position  is,  luckily,  secure.  I  contend  that, 
as  we  have  gone  out  of  our  (edible)  way,  ages  ago, 
to  devour  the  mollusc,  we  should  progress  a  little 


20  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

further  on  the  same  (dietetic)  lines.  Why  not  enlarge 
and  extend  the  British  bill  of  fare  ?  Here  is  a  topic 
for  my  friend  Mr.  James  Payn.  The  oyster  must 
have  been  "  a  great  departure  "  in  its  time.  Imagine 
the  attitude  of  the  solid  and  eminently  respectable 
Britisher  who  first  swallowed  an  oyster.  It  was,  in 
truth,  a  great  feat ;  it  led  to  a  great  innovation  in 
food  delicacies,  and  I  trust  it  may  be  repeated  in  the 
case  of  many  of  the  products  of  marine  zoology  as 
yet  limited  to  the  aquarium.  The  late  Mr.  Gosse 
used  to  relate  how  once  upon  a  time  he  cooked  and 
ate  a  sea-anemone. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  fired  with  a  strong 
emulation  to  imitate  my  masters  in  science,  I  went 
and  did  likewise.  The  experiment  was  not  a  success. 
The  anemone  (fig.  7)  was  tough,  and  required  a  nice 
sauce  hollandaise,  say,  to  make  one  fancy  it  was  only 
cod-fish  after  all.  Unfortunately  I  had  to  cook  the 
animal  myself  (the  head  of  the  kitchen  in  those  days 
refused  to  "  mess  about,"  as  she  put  it,  with  "  such 
filthy  things "),  and  there  were  no  directions  in  any 
of  the  estimable  manuals  of  the  culinary  art  at  my 
command  whereby  I  might  be  guided  in  my  attempts 
in  food-reform. 

Later  on  I  may  "  return  to  my  anemone  ; ''  but  it 
will  be  rather  in  a  literary  than  in  a  culinary  sense,  I 
fear.  You  get  nice  fresh  cuttlefish  on  the  Mediter- 
ranean borders,  and  it  tastes  like  nicely-done  tripe. 
Everybody  has  had  (or  thinks  he  has  enjoyed)  frogs' 
hind-legs  in  Paris;  but  "you  can  never  be  sure,"  as 
the  comic  song  has  it,  unless  you  go  to  the  Halles 
Centrales  and  buy  your  frogs  nicely  skewered  on 
those  little  bits  of  wood,  each  looking  for  all  the 
world  like  a  monkey  on  a  stick.  Anyhow,  I  always 


OYSTERS.  21 

take  mine  oyster  as  a  proof  that  once  upon  a  time 
we  did  make  a  step  in  the  direction  of  a  fuller  menu; 
and  when  one  thinks  of  the  endless  reiteration  of  the 
"  beef,  pork,  mutton,"  and  of  the  "  chop-fish-steak- 
ham-and-eggs,  sir  ! "  I  can  only  hope  (without  being 
a  Sybarite)  that  when  we  next  enlarge  our  dietary  I 
may  be  there  to  see — and  to  partake  likewise. 

Our  oyster  is  designated,  somewhat  unfeelingly,  I 
confess,  in  natural  history  text-books,  "  a  headless 
bivalve."  Whether  it  ever  possessed  a  head  or  not, 
the  sequel  doth  not  show.  I  can  certainly  hie  back, 
if  you  will,  in  oyster-history,  and  trace  for  you  its 
development ;  but  even  in  its  early  days  there  is  no 
appearance  of  a  head.  Hence  it  is  an  inferior  crea- 
ture in  this  sense  to  your  snail  or  whelk,  which  not 
only  possesses  a  head,  but  contrives  to  see  a  good  deal 
of  the  world  in  the  course  of  its  somewhat  laboured 
peregrinations. 

The  oysters  lying  in  Mrs.  Driver's  tank  this 
morning  are  gaping  widely  enough.  You  might 
almost  think  they  had  died  in  the  night ;  but  when 
you  tap  the  shell  ever  so  lightly  you  notice  how  it 
closes  with  a  somewhat  leisurely  but  highly  deter- 
mined motion.  Now,  this  observation  proves  two 
things  to  the  inquiring  mind.  It  shows,  first  of  all, 
that  the  bivalve  exhibits  a  quick  appreciation  of  the 
"  tapping  at  its  garden-gate ;  "  in  other  words,  it  is 
provided  with  a  very  distinct  nervous  system.  Then, 
secondly,  you  observe  that  it  possesses  a  powerful 
n:uscle  wherewith  the  shell  is  closed. 

Look  at  the  empty  valve  or  shell  from  which  you 
hare  just  removed  its  tenant.  You  notice  the  oval  im- 
pression on  the  inside  of  the  valve  showing  where  the 
muscle  was  attached,  and  you  observe  on  the  other  and 


22  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

companion  valve,  the  neighbour-impression.  Between 
the  two  valves  of  the  shell,  then,  there  stretches  this 
strong  band  of  muscular  fibres ;  so  strong  that  it 
requires  the  deft  hand  of  the  oyster-opener  to  detach 
them.  This  muscle  which  closes  the  valves  and  keeps 
them  shut  is  called  the  "adductor;"  and  while  our 
oyster  has  but  one,  the  mussels  themselves  possess 
two.  It  is  a  voluntary  muscle  this  of  the  oyster, 
and  quite  as  much  at  the  command  of  the  animal 
as  your  own  biceps  is  placed  under  your  behest. 

But  the  adductor  muscle  of  the  oyster  is  not  an 
organ  which  is  frequently  in  use.  If  the  shell  is 
closed  by  its  action,  how,  you  inquire,  are  the  valves 
opened  ?  Look  once  again  at  the  empty  shell.  You 
observe  at  its  beak  or  apex  the  remains  of  a  brownish 
substance.  That  is  the  " ligament"  of  the  shell.  It 
is  an  elastic  band,  which  is  put  on  the  stretch  when 
the  shell  is  closed  by  the  adductor  muscle.  If  that 
muscle  relaxes,  you  see  what  will  happen.  The 
elastic  ligament  will  come  into  play,  and  by  that 
elasticity  will  keep  the  shell  open. 

Now,  as  an  open  shell  is  the  oyster's  natural  con- 
dition, we  can  note  in  this  contrivance  a  saving  of 
power.  The  shell  is  kept  unclosed  by  the  purely 
elastic  and  mechanical  action  of  the  ligament.  The 
oyster  has  no  need  to  bother  itself  over  this  duty. 
But  it  is  when  the  more  unusual  work  of  closing  the 
shell  has  to  be  accomplished  that  the  vital  and 
muscular  act  comes  into  play.  Then  the  muscle  acts, 
and  "  shuts  up  shop,"  so  to  speak,  without  delay. 
Nature  is  always  economical  in  her  distribution  of 
power,  and  our  oyster  is  kept  gaping  without  the 
expenditure  of  any  vital  activity. 

I  may  not  linger  to-day  to  tell  you  of  the  gills  of 


OYSTERS.  23 

the  oyster  (otherwise  the  "  beard  "),  with  their  count- 
less cilia,  which  waft  in  currents  of  water  perpetually 
for  food  and  breathing,  and  as  perpetually  sweep  out 
these  currents  laden  with  the  waste  of  the  molluscan 
body.  But  perchance  I  have  said  enough  to  convince 
you  that  the  oyster-shop  exhibits  many  interesting 
problems  in  science  in  the  contents  of  its  tanks ;  and 
to  suggest  that,  as  oysters  contribute  largely  to  the 
material  nutrition  of  mankind,  they  may  also  be  found 
not  less  wholesome  when  regarded  from  an  intellectual 
point  of  view. 
3 


V. 

SLobsters. 

TO-DAY,  in  the  fishmonger's  shop,  I  beheld  a  large 
box  of  lobsters  which  the  early  morning  train  had 
brought  from  the  far  north  of  Scotland.  They  were 
packed  into  the  box  with  that  total  disregard  of  what- 
ever feelings  the  lower  animals  may  possess  which 
characterises  man  in  his  dealings  with  life  below  his 
own,  whether  it  is  represented  by  fowls  in  hencoops 
or  by  pigs  or  sheep  in  railway  trucks.  The  seething 
mass  of  blue-black  bodies  encrusted  with  the  white 
spiral  shells  of  worms  that  build  limy  tubes,  was  "  a 
sight  for  to  see,"  as  the  old  ballad  has  it.  Lobster- 
life  seems  to  take  its  troubles  with  equanimity.  Be- 
yond an  occasional  squirming  of  a  tail  or  flap  of  a 
feeler,  all  was  quiet  within  the  box.  One  veteran 
crustacean,  perched  in  a  coign  of  vantage  above  the 
others,  was  working  his  jaws — one  of  many  pairs — as 
if  still  under  the  delusion  that  he  was  cosily  nestling 
under  his  rock  in  the  sea,  and  baling  out  the  refuse 
water  from  his  gills  by  means  of  the  scooplike  spoon 
wherewith  he  is  provided  for  the  purpose  in  question. 
His  great  black  eyes,  each  resting  on  a  short  stalk, 
were  staring  vacuously  at  the  prospect  before  him. 
Mentally  regarded,  that  prospect  was  not  a  cheerful 
one.  "  Out  of  the  box  and  into  the  pot"  might  well 


LOBSTERS.  25 

parallel  the  frying-pan  and  fire  simile  as  applied  to 
lobster-life.  In  a  few  hours  after  I  saw  that  big 
crustacean,  I  doubt  not  he  was  popped  into  his  funeral 
urn.  As  I  write,  his  nice  blue-black  shell  will  have 
changed  into  the  bright  red  of  the  boiled  animal — a 
colour  seen,  by-the-way,  in  the  lobster  of  a  certain 
classic  picture  intended  to  represent  the  native  pro- 
ducts of  the  sea  as  obtained  in  the  miraculous  draught 
of  fishes. 

By  to-morrow,  nothing  will  be  left  of  him  but  his 
shelly  armour.  He  will  have  perished,  as  has  many 
a  higher  creature,  in  the  work  of  making  life  brighter 
and  better — in  so  far  as  lobster-salad  can  be  said  to 
aid  that  desirable  end — and  so  runs  the  world  away, 
little  recking  of  the  wonderful  amount  of  vital  com- 
plexity which  it  consumes  even  in  its  most  common- 
place fare. 

A  certain  great  naturalist  has  used  the  lobster-kind 
as  the  text  or  peg  whereon  to  hang  a  very  instructive 
book  of  natural  history  science.  In  truth,  I  know  of  no 
better  task  for  a  would-be  naturalist  than  the  attempt 
to  discover  the  ways  and  works  of  lobster-existence. 
From  its  head  to  its  tail  the  familiar  crustacean  is  a 
living  wonder.  That  it  is  a  poor  relation  of  the  crab 
is  a  plain  fact ;  although  why  a  "  poor "  connection 
may  not  be  quite  so  evident  as  is  the  relationship 
itself.  This  matter  resolves  itself  into  a  question  of 
tail  and  no  tail.  Early  in  life,  crabs  and  lobsters  are 
tailed  animals.  Then  your  crab  shortens  the  appen- 
dage just  named  and  tucks  it  up  under  his  body — 
which,  by-the-way,  is  all  head  and  chest. 

The  lobster  keeps  his  youthful  tail  throughout  life, 
but  poses  as  a  lower  animal  than  the  crab  in  conse- 
quence. He  is  nearer  the  groundlings  of  his  race,  in 


26 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


other  words,  because  of  his  tail ;  and  the  crab,  con- 
versely, is  his  more  modified  and  better  developed 
cousin,  because  he  has  a  higher  nervous  system  and 
a  more  elevated  and  compact  type  of  body.  Not  alone 
in  crustacean  life  is  this  matter  of  tails  a  vital  question. 
From  frogs  up  to  man,  the  disappearance  of  the  tail 
bears  an  important  part  in  the 
history  of  the  race.  Heads  are 
all  very  well  in  the  race  for 
superiority ;  but  when  there  is 
a  doubt  at  all  in  the  matter  of 
aristocratic  position  among  the 
animal  hosts,  one  may  not  go 
very  far  astray  in  crediting  with 
a  station  of  high  degree,  the  being 
which  has  discarded  his  tail  and, 
in  a  zoological  sense,  has  come 
to  the  short-jacket  stage  of  ana- 
tomical perfection. 

That  lobster  of  ours  has  in  his 
body  some  twenty  joints  or  seg- 
ments, and  there  is  not  one  joint 
which  may  not  form  food  for  re- 
flection. Every  joint  is  really 
a  replica  of  every  other  joint, 
ig-  8.— Joints  of  Lobster's  although,  truly,  you  may  require 

Body.  .  .... 

Ca  is  the  united  head  and  to      dlVC      into      the      intricacies     of 
chest :  the  numbers  refer  to  the 

six  joints  of  the  tail;  the  refer-  anatomy  to  trace  OUt  the   llKCnCSS. 

ences  ex  and  en  refer  to  the  r-^.  ...  -    .  .  .. 

expanded  appendages  of  the  1  llOSC    SIX    JOlIltS    OI    hlS     tail    are, 
sixth  joint  forming  the  tail-fin ;  .  .  .  r.  .      _ 

and  /  is  the  telson,  or  middle  perhaps,  the  Simplest  OI  hlS  frame, 

piece  of  the  tail-fin.  ^    .  ,  . 

Below  you  observe  that  each  pos- 
sesses a  couple  of  appendages  called  the  tl  swim- 
merets,"  and  to  these  appendages  Mamma  Lobster, 
as  you  may  see,  attaches  her  eggs,  and  constitutes 


LOBSTERS.  27 

herself  a  walking  nursemaid  by  reason  of  this  little 
piece  of  attention  to  maternal  duties.  Each  pair  of 
appendages  is  like  every  other  pair ;  albeit,  you  find 
great  variation  in  their  shape  and  form.  Those  of  the 
tail  (ex  en)  exist  each  as  a  double-leaved  structure  set 
on  a  joint.  If  you  look  at  the  tail-fin,  wherewith,  aided 
by  the  big  muscles  of  the  tail,  the  lobster  makes  a 
forcible  backward  stroke  in  the  water,  you  will  dis- 
cover that  the  fin  consists  simply  of  a  pair  of  the 
swimmerets  you  see  further  forward  on  the  body, 
broadened  out,  and  having  a  little  centrepiece  (/)  set 
between  them. 

Go  farther  forward  on  the  body  and  you  come  to 
the  five  pairs  of  walking  legs.  Now  these  legs,  after 
all,  are  only  altered  swimmerets,  in  which  the  inner- 
most leaf  has  grown  big  and  foot-like,  and  has  become 
encased  in  a  limy  shell.  Further  forward  still,  and 
you  reach  the  "foot-jaws,"  which  are  half-way  houses 
between  jaws  in  front  and  legs  behind.  Then  come 
the  jaws  proper,  of  which  your  lobster  boasts  three 
pairs.  One  pair  is  hard  and  thorny,  the  other  two 
are  softer  in  texture — but  they  are  all  really  swim- 
merets, like  those  of  the  tail.  Then  in  front  of  the 
jaws  come  the  "  feelers,"  and  of  these  two  pairs  (fig.  9, 
a  b)  exist.  The  lesser  pair  has  two  divisions,  while 
the  greater  feelers,  that  project  like  huge  horns,  have 
only  one  division  or  part.  These  feelers,  again,  are 
only  modified  appendages,  all  corresponding  to  the 
simpler  ones  of  the  tail.  Finally  come  the  eyes  ;  and 
the  movable  eye-stalks  on  which  the  eyes  are  set, 
correspond  to  the  single  joint  by  which  the  appen- 
dages elsewhere  are  attached  to  the  body. 

Now,  if  you  ask  me,  "  How  one  comes  to  all  this 
certainty  of  knowledge  ?  "  I  reply,  because  when  the 


28  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

lobster  is  a  mere  baby,  just  out  of  his  egg,  or  but  little 
further  advanced  in  his  history,  all  the  appendages 
resemble  the  swimmerets  of  the  adult's  tail.  As  he 
grows,  those  of  the  head  change  to  form  eye-stalks, 
feelers,  and  jaws ;  others  become  his  foot-jaws,  and 
others,  again,  his  walking-legs ;  and  only  those  of  the 
tail  retain  their  original  form.  It  is  not  what  things 
are,  but  what  they  have  sprung  from,  that  we  trust 
to  in  science  for  the  elucidation  of  their  true  nature ; 
and  the  lobster  is  a  good  illustration  of  the  manner  in 
which  many  and  varied  organs  of  an  animal's  body 
arise  out  of  one  common  stock — a  feature  which  is 
repeated  in  the  history  of  the  whole  animal. 

Lobsters,  thus,  form   a  text,  as  I  have  said,   for 


9-  —  Diagram  of  Lobster. 


teaching  a  great  lesson  in  the  value  of  watching  an 
animal's  development  as  a  clue  to  its  history.  For 
the  rest  space  fails  me,  at  present,  for  the  discussion 
of  many  interesting  questions  in  crustacean  life  —  as, 
for  example,  the  inquiry,  "  How  and  what  do  lobsters 
see  ?  "  But  of  this  matter  more  anon.  Of  gills  (fig. 
9,  /)  the  lobster  possesses  a  full  set,  lying  neatly 
packed  away  in  the  sides  of  his  chest,  and  attached 
to  the  tops  of  his  walking  legs  and  foot-jaws. 

A  nervous  system  (fig  9,  g,  e)  he  likewise  possesses, 
lying  on  the  floor  of  his  body,  like  that  of  the  insects, 


LOBSTERS.  29 

spiders,  and  centipedes,  of  which  he  is  a  distant  con- 
nection. His  digestive  system,  beginning  at  the  mouth 
(m),  includes  a  stomach  (s),  an  intestine  (/),  and  a  big 
liver.  His  heart  (n)  he  carries  on  his  back.  He 
has  feelers  and  eyes,  as  we  have  noted  ;  his  ears  exist 
at  the  foot  of  his  lesser  pair  of  feelers,  and  he  pos- 
sibly possesses  a  "  nose  "  (physiologically  regarded),  for 
smelling  functions,  judging  by  his  successful  search 
after  the  "  high  "  and  odoriferous  fish  wherewith  the 
lobster-traps  are  baited. 

Altogether,  the  lobster  is  not  to  be  despised  as  a 
lowly  creature.  Contrariwise ;  and,  as  his  life  is  laid 
out  for  him,  he  possibly  contrives  to  secure  a  full 
share  of  whatever  corresponds  in  lower  existence  to 
the  delights  of  higher  or  more  sentient  life. 


VI. 

SpfDers. 

IN  a  corner  of  the  kitchen  window  a  very  large 
specimen  of  the  domestic  spider  has  been  engaged  for 
a  day  or  two  past  in  constructing  her  domicile.  I  say 
"her,"  because,  with  whatever  success  in  human  life 
the  female  sex  may  fight  the  battle  for  equality  with 
men,  the  question  of  woman's  rights  was  solved  in 
spider-life  ages  and  ages  ago.  Your  male  spider  is 
but  a  "puir  body,"  as  Northerners  say  when  they 
express  their  sense  of  the  inferiority  of  an  acquaint- 
ance. Like  certain  human  units  (of  the  male  sex)  who 
are  too  much  given  to  haunting  their  clubs,  the  male 
spiders  are  rarely  seen  "  at  home." 

"The  "  sex  is  paramount  in  spider  society,  and,  if  any 
other  argument  were  wanting  to  prove  that  "  the  grey 
mare  is  the  better  horse  "  among  these  spinners  and 
weavers  of  lower  life,  one  might  find  it  in  the  fact  that 
the  ladies  vastly  exceed  in  size  their  husbands  and 
male  friends.  There  is  yet  another  trait  in  the  domestic 
life  of  the  spider  class  which  reveals  a  very  curious 
phase  of  lower  social  history.  Everybody  has  heard 
of  those  savage  tribes  (locality,  South  Seas,  I  believe) 
whose  members  deem  it  a  bounden  duty  to  brain  their 
aged  parents,  and  thus  save  the  old  folk  from  the 
trouble  and  bather  of  living  on  ;  while  the  economic 


SPIDERS.  31 

side  of  this  barbarous  custom  may,  of  course,  also 
fall  to  be  considered. 

Something  equally  distressing  has  to  be  chronicled 
of  the  spiders.  For  it  is  certain  that  Madame  Spider 
fs,  on  the  whole,  a  regular  virago.  She  beats  and 
mauls  her  husband,  and,  if  police  courts  existed  in 
spider  society,  the  magistrates  would  have  a  busy  time 
of  it  in  the  way  of  fines,  imprisonments,  and  judicial 
separations.  Not  content  with  exercising  marital 
authority,  in  the  reverse  order  to  that  in  which  this 
species  of  command  is  usually  exerted,  Mrs.  Spider 
has  actually  been  known  to  make  an  end  of  her  mate 
by  slaying  and,  distressing  to  relate,  by  devouring 
him  also. 

One  De  Geer,  who  is  quoted  by  Kirby  and  Spence, 
relates  that  he  has  seen  the  male  spider  "  seized  by 
the  object  of  his  attentions,  enveloped  by  her  in  a  web, 
and  then  devoured — a  sight  which,"  adds  the  sym- 
pathetic narrator,  "  filled  him  with  horror  and  indigna- 
tion." In  a  society  where  manslaughter  or  homicide 
seems  to  be  the  especial  privilege  of  the  female  sex, 
we  may  cease  to  feel  surprised  at  anything;  and, 
having  decried  the  vices,  so  we  may  extol  the  virtues 
of  this  curious  race.  Spiders,  let  us  note,  are  not 
"  insects,"  in  any  sense.  People  are  too  fond  of 
calling  everything  an  "  insect "  of  whose  rank  in  nature 
they  are  not  quite  certain. 

From  coral-polypes  up  to  centipedes,  all  are  " insects" 
to  the  uninstructed  mind,  and  of  course  the  spiders 
could  hardly  escape  the  imputation  of  being  included 
in  that  class.  But,  while  an  insect  has  six  legs,  a 
spider  has  eight ;  and,  while  an  insect  has  a  pair  of 
"  feelers,"  a  spider  has  none,  as  such.  Again,  in  the 
absence  of  wings  and  in  the  manner  of  breathing,  as 


32  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

well  as  in  the  fact  that  a  spider's  body  is  differently 
modelled  from  that  of  an  insect,  we  see  how  rigidly 
the  one  group  is  marked  off  from  the  other.  They 
are  divergent  branches  of  the  same  tree,  no  doubt,  but 
their  present-day  distinctness  is  easy  to  be  recognised. 
The  spider  in  the  kitchen  is  evidently  a  well-to-do 
member  of  her  race.  She  is  large  and  comely,  and 
beautifully  speckled  and  marbled  with  dark  brown  and 
yellowish  white.  Judging  from  her  appearance,  I 
should  say  she  is  a  belle  in  arachnidan  society,  and, 
if  one  may  deem  that  personal  charms  are  enhanced 
by  much  activity  and  general  liveliness,  the  spider  in 
question  must  rank  as  a  very  Cleopatra  of  the  tribe. 

That  geometrical  web  has  given  her  a  deal  of  trouble 
these  last  few  days.  I  have  watched  her  spin  safety- 
lines  innumerable  to  keep  the  net  from  being  displaced 
by  the  draughts  of  the  kitchen  window.  It  takes  her 
only  a  minute  or  two  deftly  to  fix  a  new  cord,  and  she 
exemplifies  to  the  full  that  expression  of  Pope's  about 
"  living  along  the  line."  How  she  spins  her  web  it 
may  be  interesting  to  trace. 

Like  the  silk-moth's  caterpillar,  or  the  mussel  in  the 
sea,  which  are  also  spinners  and  weavers,  Madame 
Spider's  silk-secretion  exists  within  her  body  in  a  fluid 
state.  It  is  made  and  secreted  by  certain  silk-forming 
glands  which  end  in  the  "  spinnerets."  These  last  are 
conical  projections  placed  near  the  tail ;  and  compara- 
tive anatomy  seems  to  teach  us  that  the  spinnerets 
really  represent  much-altered  limbs.  Each  of  these 
organs  seems  in  its  essential  nature  to  be  composed 
of  a  multitude  of  fine  tubes,  opening  at  the  top  of  the 
spinneret.  This,  then,  is  the  apparatus  wherewith  our 
spider  weaves. 

Let  us  see  how  the  weaving  is  carried  on.      The 


SPIDERS.  33 

silk,  while  within  the  glands,  exists  in  a  semi-fluid 
state  ;  but  when  it  is  exposed  to  the  air  it  becomes 
dried,  or  of  a  more  tenacious  consistence,  and  in  this 
state  is  susceptible  of  being  drawn  out  into  a  fine 
thread.  Think  for  a  moment  what  happens  to  melted 
wax  or  glue.  So  long  as  the  heat  is  of  sufficient 
amount,  either  substance  remains  fluid  ;  but  if  we  draw 
a  little  out  of  the  pot  on  a  piece  of  stick,  exposure 
to  the  air  hardens  the  wax  or  glue,  and  with  a  little 
dexterity  we  can  produce  the  melted  substance  into  a 
fine  thread.  This  represents  accurately  enough  how 
and  why  the  semi-fluid  silk  of  the  spider  becomes  a 
dry  thread  when  it  is  pressed  out  through  the  fine 
tubes  of  the  spinnerets. 

There  yet  remains  the  fact  of  the  many  threads 
which  should  issue  from  the  spinnerets,  and  this  fact 
is  puzzling  enough  when  you  see  that  the  spider  really 
works  with  a  single  line.  The  single  thread,  how- 
ever, is  formed  of  the  united  strands  which  issue  from 
the  various  spinnerets ;  yet,  pause  for  a  moment,  to 
note  the  fineness  of  the  spider's  thread.  You  are 
accustomed  in  ordinary  life  to  talk  of  "  the  gossamer 
thread  "  as  the  type  of  fineness  ;  yet,  what  do  you  say 
to  the  plain  fact  that  this  apparently  single  thread  of 
utmost  fineness  is  itself  composed  of  hundreds  of 
different  threads  ? 

Can  the  mind  find  a  better  illustration  of  the 
"  indivisibility  "  of  matter?  I  trow  not;  and  when, 
in  these  latter  days,  we  are  given  to  talk  and  to  think 
of  atoms  and  molecules,  and  other  ultimate  forms  of 
matter,  it  may  be  well  if  we  give  the  spider's  line  a 
thought  in  passing  as  an  illustration  of  life's  success 
in  dealing  with  the  excessively  thin  and  the  marvel- 
lously fine.  Other  spiders  than  that  of  the  kitchen 


34  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

window  elaborate  regular  nests  or  tents,  and  use  the 
silk-secretion  as  the  lining  thereof.  The  trap-door 
spider  of  Southern  Europe  will  be  familiar  to  many 
readers,  and  that  strength  as  well  as  delicacy  may  be 
said  to  rank  among  the  products  of  the  race  is  easily 
proved,  when  we  think  of  the  tropical  spiders  which 
capture  small  birds  in  their  "deceitful  webs." 

Our  spider  has  been  more  than  successful  in  her 
recent  foraging  expeditions.  The  autumn  weather  has 
chilled  the  flies,  and  has  rendered  them  less  active  and 
easier  prey  than  before.  Madame  Spider,  from  her 
dwelling-place,  rushes  along  her  web  at  the  first  in- 
timation of  an  unintentional  call  from  the  fly  world, 
and  speedily  her  poison  apparatus  is  brought  into  play 
for  the  extinction  of  the  hapless  victim. 

The  poison  fangs  of  the  spider  are  two  curved  hooks 
borne  on  what  naturalists  call  the  mandibles  or  big 
jaws.  A  poison  gland  supplies  the  virus,  and  our 
spider  thus  differs  materially  in  this  respect  from  a 
near  relative,  the  scorpion,  which  carries  its  poison 
apparatus  in  its  tail,  and  which,  if  report  is  to  be 
believed,  occasionally  takes  an  insane  fancy  to  commit 
suicide  by  plunging  its  own  sting  into  its  own  back. 
Nothing  so  foolish  ever  happens  in  spider-life. 

{Addendum.—  ^  these  pages  are  passing  through  the  press, 
an  observation  has  been  published  which  seems  to  throw  doubt 
on  the  generally  received  notion  that  the  spider's  thread  is  com- 
posed of  many  different  strands.  The  observation  requires 
confirmation,  of  course,  but  if  correct,  it  will  not  lessen  the 
interest  which  attaches  to  the  spinning  operations.] 


VII. 

Stats  at  Slamtasb. 

THIS  quiet  morning  by  the  Clyde  is  the  commence- 
ment of  an  ideal  holiday  of  the  lazy  kind.  Stretched 
on  the  greensward  at  Toward  Point,  one  gives  oneself 
up  entirely  to  the  dolce  far  niente  style  of  existence, 
and  to  the  dreams  and  fancies  from  which  not  even 
the  most  matter-of-fact  life,  so  far  as  I  can  discover, 
is  free.  Active  work  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  will 
be  a  thing  of  the  future ;  for  the  present  it  is  sufficient 
that  books  are  closed  awhile,  lectures  finished,  and 
the  gradgrind  of  life  suspended. 

In  a  few  weeks  we  shall  be  back  in  the  roar  of  the 
city  :  therefore,  let  us  take  the  rest  and  content  of 
things  while  we  may.  From  Innellan  we  set  out  this 
morning,  bent  on  a  long  stroll  and  on  the  exercise  of 
our  walking  powers  ;  but  good  resolutions  melt  away 
in  the  heat,  and  the  grass  at  Toward  is  green  and  the 
air  exhilarating ;  so  we  rest  close  by  the  lighthouse, 
and  survey  the  prospect  of  hill  and  sea  that  never 
fails  to  charm,  and  rarely  fails  to  convey  a  sense  of 
graceful  rest  to  the  fagged  city-dweller. 

Quiet  as  it  is  at  Toward,  there  is  bustle  enough 
not  far  away.  Round  the  point  at  Rothesay,  the 
Margate  and  Ramsgate  of  Scotland  rolled  into  one, 
there  is  an  eternal  turmoil.  Ardrishaig  will  be  a 


36  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

busy  place  this  day,  with  its  vortex  of  tourists  disem- 
barking from  the  Columbcts  capacious  decks,  and  em- 
barking for  the  journey  up  the  Kyles  of  Bute  and 
onwards  to  Greenock  and  beyond.  Tarbert  you  can 
see  in  your  mind's  eye,  fussy  and  busy ;  and  you  can 
picture  the  Gaels  on  the  Oban  pier,  pointing  with 
their  fingers,  as  if  they  all  exhibited  some  maledictory 
frame  of  mind,  to  secure  engagements  for  carriage  of 
baggage  from  steamer  to  town.  Inverary,  too,  will 


Fig.  10 — Crinoid. 

not  be  behind  in  its  bustle  and  stir  when  the  Lord  of 
the  Isles  comes  alongside  the  pier ;  and  little  Strachur 
itself  can  put  on  a  very  respectable  air  of  importance 
when  from  the  steamer  the  tourists  pour  forth  to 
coach  it  overland. 

Other  scenes,  too,  you  can  picture  for  yourself,  as 
the  steamers  pass  by  in  quick  succession.  The  white- 
funnelled  Ivanhoe  is  off  on  her  Arran  trip,  and  the 
less  ambitious  Eagle  will  creep  along  the  Bute  coast, 


STARS  AT  LA  ML  ASH.  37 

also  Arran-bound.  I  see  the  latter  vessel  calling  at 
Kilchattan  Bay,  and  note  how  the  fishermen  at  the 
pier  are  clearing  their  nets  of  the  silvery  herring  they 
have  taken  in  the  night,  and  how  the  forepart  of  their 
boat  has  become  a  mass  of  fishes  which  will  doubtless 
soon  be  packed  in  the  boxes  on  the  quay  and  dis- 
patched to  feed  the  city-dwellers  far  and  near.  Then 
I  see  Corrie  nestling  under  Goat  Fell  and  the  hills 
around,  the  flag  waving  over  its  little  hotel,  and  girls 
in  bright  lawn-tennis  costumes  staying  their  game 
till  the  steamer  has  passed. 

Brodick  also  I  see,  with  its  castle  perched  on  the 
hill-side ;  Lamlash,  with  its  bay,  and  Holy  Island 
sheltering  it ;  and  Whiting  Bay  too,  with  its  big  boats 
that  ferry  passengers  to  and  from  the  steamer.  Here, 
on  this  lazy  day  at  Toward,  one  imagines  these  scenes 
clearly  enough,  and  wishes  it  were  possible  to  see 
them  again,  for  the  first  time  in  all  the  beauty  of  a 
sunny  day. 

But  there  are  "wells  of  content"  at  Toward,  and 
there  is  wealth  of  thought  enough — or  oblivion  of 
most  things,  if  you  prefer  the  latter — to  be  found 
here  on  this  sweltering  August  day.  The  Clyde  is 
like  a  lake,  and  the  white-winged  yachts  are  simply 
playing  the  role  of  "  painted  ships "  this  morning, 
and  envying  that  beautiful  steam-yacht — lilac-tinted, 
and  neat  and  trim  as  a  man-of-war — which  has  just 
rounded  out  of  Rothesay  Bay,  and  is  making  up  the 
estuary  at  a  speed  of  fifteen  knots  or  so.  Over  yonder, 
the  Cumbraes  lie  bathed  in  sunlight,  and  look  like 
golden  isles  set  in  a  sea  of  glass.  It  was  a  cleric 
dwelling  on  these  islands  who  prayed  that  the 
Almighty  might  "  bless  especially  the  Greater  and 
Lesser  Cumbraes,  and  the  adjacent  islands  of  Great 


38  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Britain  and  Ireland  ! "  This  is  a  local  story,  at  least ; 
if  true,  I  opine  that  clergyman,  like  the  Kilbarchan 
weaver,  must  have  prayed  that  he  "micht  have  a 
gude  conceit  o'  himsel'."  And  his  prayer,  doubtless, 
was  abundantly  answered. 

You  ask  what  is  Lamlash  famous  for,  and  I  reply, 
its  bay  ;  and  its  bay  is  in  turn  noted  as  being  one  of 
the  settlements  of  a  certain  interesting  member  of  the 
starfish  group.  Do  you  see  that  broken  starfish  which 
has  been  tossed  up  on  the  seaweed  at  our  feet  ?  Look 
at  it  attentively  for  a  moment,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
story  of  the  Lamlash  starfish.  This  fragment  of  star- 
fish life  which  has  been  cast  up  at  Toward  is  a 
"  Brittle-Star." 

It  gets  its  name  from  the  fact  that  it  has  a  habit 
erf  parting  as  easily  with  its  rays  or  arms  as  some 
people  have  of  parting  with  their  promises.  Its  body, 
you  observe,  is  composed  of  a  central  part  or  disc,  and 
the  arms  are  mere  appendages  to  this  disc.  This  is 
very  different  from  the  case  of  the  common  starfish 
we  dissected  some  weeks  ago.  There,  the  arms  were 
part  and  parcel  of  the  body,  and  the  stomach  and 
other  organs  ran  into  the  rays,  on  the  under-side  of 
which  you  saw  the  hundreds  of  tube-feet.  Here,  in  our 
brittle-star,  the  body  is  really  represented  by  the  central 
part,  and  the  arms  do  not  contain  any  prolongations 
of  the  organs  or  belongings  of  the  body.  Now,  this 
brittle-star,  like  the  sand-stars,  finds  itself  placed  in 
a  class  of  its  own,  on  account  of  these  and  other 
peculiarities  of  structure ;  and  such  a  proceeding  is 
as  justifiable  in  its  way  as  that  which  puts  a  snail  in 
one  division  of  the  Gasteropod  class,  and  a  limpet  in 
another. 

Yet  another  kind  of  starfish,  however,  was  known 


STARS  AT  LAM  LASH. 


39 


long  ago  to  naturalists,  and  it  is  this  third  variety  for 
which  Lamlash  Bay  became  famous.  I  observe  that 
the  bay  is  getting  the  credit  of  scarcity  as  regards  its 
starfishes,  but  I  sincerely  hope  this  is  not  the  case. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  the  "  Rosy  Feather  Star  "  for 
which  Lamlash  became  famous  in  its  day  and  genera- 
tion, and  it  will  always  be  with  this  starfish  in  particular 
that  the  zoological  mind  will  associate  the  pretty  bay 
of  Arran,  with  Holy  Island  as  its  outer  bulwark  and 
protection.  The  rosy  feather  star  is  not  unlike  that 
brittle-star  that  lies  at  our  feet,  in  respect  of  its 


Fig,  ii.— Rosy  Feather  Star  (a)  and  Stalked  Young  (3). 

general  appearance ;  but  its  colour  is  pink,  as  its 
name  indicates,  and  its  arms  exhibit  processes  or 
appendages,  as  the  term  "  feather "  would  imply. 
The  organs  are  confined  to  the  central  body-disc,  so 
that  it  is  not  by  any  means  a  near  relation  of  the 
common  five-fingered  starfish  which  the  waves  so 
frequently  cast  up  on  the  beach. 

In  the  rocks  we  find  the  fossil-remains  of  curious 
starfishes    set    on    stalks,    and    known    as    crinoids. 
Preserved  as  fossils,  they  are  often  popularly  known 
4 


40  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

as  stone  lilies  or  encrinites.  It  is  the  joints  of  their 
fossilised  stalks,  found  by  the  thousand  in  some  lime- 
stones, that  Sir  Walter  Scott  speaks  of  in  "  Marmion  " 
as  "  Saint  Cuthbert's  beads."  The  crinoids  are  re- 
presented to-day  by  only  a  few  living  forms.  Deep- 
sea  exploration  added  to  their  number,  certainly,  and 
dragged  from  the  abysses  several  stalked  starfishes 
which  had  been  regarded  as  being  wholly  extinct. 
These  typical  crinoids  (fig.  10),  whether  alive  in  the 
deep  ocean  to-day,  or  fossilised  as  remnants  of  far- 
back  populations  of  forgotten  seas,  spent  the  whole 
of  their  existence  on  stalks. 

Yet,  somewhere  about  1840  or  so — I  am  not  sure 
of  the  exact  date — Mr.  J.  V.  Thompson  found  in 
the  Cove  of  Cork  a  curious  starfish  set  on  a  stalk, 
and  which  was  duly  named  the  Pentacrinus  Europceus. 
This  was  a  veritable  treasure-find — in  a  zoological 
sense.  If  I  mistake  not,  no  living  crinoid  had  then 
been  found  in  European  seas,  although,  afterwards,  Sars 
brought  to  light  another  form  dredged  off  the  Lofoden 
Isles.  Next  in  order  came  the  curious  fact  that  Mr. 
Thompson's  stalked  starfish  left  its  stalk  at  a  given 
period  in  its  life-history,  and,  lo  and  behold  !  appeared 
before  the  eyes  of  naturalists  as  our  old  friend  the 
rosy  feather  star,  of  Lamlash,  and  elsewhere. 

So  that  the  famous  star  of  Lamlash  is  not  an 
ordinary  starfish  at  all.  It  is  a  crinoid,  in  fact — a 
member  of  the  stalked  starfish  race,  and  a  creature  of 
aristocratic  lineage,  if  we  are  to  judge  high  life  by 
"  a  lang  pedigree."  Compared  with  our  rosy  feather 
star,  the  starfishes  of  the  beach  are  probably  very 
modern  beings,  relatively  speaking,  although  they  too 
go  far  enough  back  in  the  geological  record  as  fossils. 
The  star  of  Lamlash  differs  from  the  deep-sea  crinoids 


STARS  AT  LA  ML  ASH.  41 

in  that  it  spends  part  of  its  life  (fig.  1 1  b)  only  in 
the  stalked  state.  Other  crinoids  spend  the  whole 
of  their  lives  in  this  fixed  condition.  Here  we  find 
a  link,  perhaps,  in  the  chain  of  causes  which  have 
wrought  out  starfish  destinies. 

Perhaps  our  modern  brittle  and  other  starfishes  are 
derivatives  of  stalked  forms ;  and  the  rosy  feather 
star,  in  leaving  its  stalk,  shows  us  how  the  free  and 
unstalked  life  was  evolved.  This  may  be  a  statement 
I  cannot  prove,  therefore  I  only  suggest  it  as  a  likely 
theory,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  one  likes  to  be  able 
to  imagine  wrhy  one  starfish  is  stalked  and  another 
not.  But  the  sun  makes  it  too  hot  for  philosophy 
to-day,  and  so  we  shall  stroll  back  to  Innellan  to 
lunch,  past  the  church  which  nestles  in  the  trees  at 
Toward,  and  onwards  past  the  bright  villas  that  make 
this  corner  of  Clyde  resemble  a  Naples  nestling  on 
the  sea. 


VIII. 

H 


TO-DAY,  a  friend  who  is  by  no  means  curiously  in- 
clined regarding  science  at  large  brought  me  an  object 
which  he  alleged  he  had  purloined  from  the  cage  of 
a  canary  bird  in  the  house  of  an  acquaintance. 
Curiosity  had  for  once  got  the  upper  hand  of  him, 
and,  after  a  hot  discussion  with  the  owner  of  the  cage 
and  bird  regarding  the  nature  of  the  object  in  question, 
my  friend  seized  the  article  in  question  and  bore  it  off 
in  triumph  for  elucidation  on  my  part. 

The  object  was  a  plate  of  lime  —  to  be  strictly  correct, 
of  carbonate  of  lime,  or,  in  plain  language,  chalk.  It  was 
of  oval  shape  (fig  12),  about  four  or  five  inches  long, 
convex  on  one  side  and  flattened  on  the  other.  More 
closely  inspected,  it  was  seen  to  be  made  up  of  layers 
of  limy  matter,  superimposed  one  on  the  other.  This 
object  is  familiar  enough,  as  I  assured  my  friend, 
in  every  bird-dealer's  emporium.  It  is  hung  in  the 
cages  of  birds  that  they  may  peck  at  it,  and  obtain 
therefrom  the  limy  materials  which  are  essential  for 
their  health,  especially  in  reference  to  the  laying  of 
eggs  and  the  due  formation  of  the  shell.  The  bird- 
owner  had  assured  my  friend  that  the  object  was  a 
"cuttlefish-bone  ;  "  and  so,  doubting  the  science  of  his 
acquaintance,  he  bore  off  the  disputed  article  to  me, 


A  CUTTLE-BONE. 


43 


thinking  that  a  zoological  opinion  on  the  matter  might 
be  worth  having. 

Under  the  common  name  of  the  "  cuttlefish-bone,"  it 
is  perfectly  true,  the  limy  plate  is  sold.  It  still  makes  its 
appearance  in  pharmacy  (being  used  for  tooth  powder) 
under  that  name  :  although  it  is  not  in  any  sense  a 
bone,  and,  although  a  cuttlefish,  one  may  add,  is  not 
a  skeleton-possessing  animal. 


Fig,  12.— Cuttlefish  Shells. 


To  begin  with  (as  I  informed  my  friend),  he  must 
first  of  all  turn  his  attention  to  cuttlefishes  at  large. 
In  the  Brighton  Aquarium  or  elsewhere  he  had  seen  the 
Octopus  (fig.  13);  and  on  the  sea-beach  atDawlish  he  had 
picked  up  the  dead  bodies  of  numerous  Sepias,  which 
are  near  cousins  to  the  "  devil  fish  "  itself.  Octopus 
and  sepia  are  both  very  typical  cuttlefishes,  and  the 
list  might,  of  course,  be  greatly  enlarged.  There  are 


44 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


the  squids,  or  Loligos,  with  their  arrow-shaped  tail- 
fins  and  their  elongated  bodies ;  and  there  is  the 
Argonaut,  or  paper  nautilus,  and  the  pearly  nautilus, 
with  its  distinct  shell,  familiar  when  polished  to  every- 
body as  a  drawing-room  flower-vase. 

This,  then,  was  my  first  proceeding  in  the  case 
of  the  "cuttlefish-bone" — so  called — to  instruct  my 
friend  in  the  nature  and  forms  of  the  cuttlefishes. 
This  done,  the  next  step  consisted  in  my  reminding 


Fig.  13.— Octopior  "Devil-fishes." 

him  that  these  animals  are  Molluscs — that  is  to  say, 
they  are  relatives  of  the  snails,  oysters,  mussels,  d 
hoc  genus  omne. 

In  a  word,  cuttlefishes  are  "  shell-fish,"  properly  so 
designated.  They  stand  at  the  head  of  the  molluscan 
group,  just  as  quadrupeds  (including  homo  sapiens)stand 
at  the  top  of  the  backboned  type  of  animal  life.  This 
remark  settles  the  position  of  the  octopus  and  its 


A  CUTTLE-BONE.  45 

neighbours  in  the  animal  scale,  and  shows  that  they 
are  true  shell-fish  by  right  of  birth  and  by  all  the 
lawful  titles  which  a  distinct  zoological  position  can 
confer.  Bones,  it  is  true,  they  have  none,  for  these 
structures  are  the  exclusive  possession  of  the  back- 
boned group ;  hence,  if  the  limy  plate  found  in  the 
canary's  cage  proved  (as  prove  it  did)  to  be  a  cuttle- 
fish belonging,  it  is  clear  that  to  call  it  a  "  bone " 
was  a  contradiction  in  terms. 

The  limy  plate,  in  truth,  is  not  a  bone,  but  a  "shell." 
Unlike  a  shell  in  every  respect,  it  nevertheless  duly 
represents,  in  the  sepia-cuttlefish,  the  familiar  structure 
we  see  in  the  snail  or  the  oyster.  We  know  this, 
first  of  all,  because  it  is  made  by  that  part  of  the 
animal  which  in  other  molluscs,  and  also  in  other 
cuttlefishes,  manufactures  the  shell.  This  is  the  outer 
layer,  or  integument  of  the  body,  which,  in  natural 
history  language,  we  call  the  "  mantle." 

Whatever  structures  this  layer  forms  and  secretes 
are  "  shells,"  in  the  true  sense  of  the  term.  The 
objects  it  manufactures,  like  the  shell  of  the  sepia- 
cuttlefish  itself,  may  be  utterly  unlike  shells.  As 
such,  they  may  not  be  recognised  at  all ;  yet  in  their 
nature  they  are  shells  nevertheless.  If  we  turn  for  a 
moment  to  two  other  cuttlefishes,  we  may  be  able  to 
prove  this  assertion  very  easily. 

There  is  a  cuttlefish,  extremely  rare  indeed  as  a 
living  animal,  but  whose  shells,  as  I  have  remarked, 
are  common  enough  in  drawing-rooms.  This  is  the 
pearly  nautilus  (fig.  14).  It  is  like  the  "  last  of  the 
Mohicans,"  in  that  it  is  the  sole  survivor  of  a  once 
large  group  of  shell-possessing  four-gilled  forms.  Its 
shell  is  of  very  perfect  character.  It  is  divided  into 
compartments,  each  of  which  the  animal  successively 


46  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

inhabits.  As  it  grows  too  big  for  its  receptacle,  it 
partitions  off  the  old  apartment,  and  adds  a  new 
chamber  to  its  house,  living  in  the  last-formed  and 
biggest  of  the  rooms.  Now,  this  perfect  shell  of  the 
pearly  nautilus  is  made  by  the  "mantle,"  just  as  the 
shell  of  the  snail  or  oyster  is  fabricated  by  that  layer 
of  the  molluscan  body. 

Turn  we  now  to  the  argonaut,  or  paper  nautilus. 
Here,  also,  we  find  a  shell ;  but  it  is  not  a  true  shell, 
because  it  is  not  formed  by  the  "  mantle "  of  the 


Fig.  14.— Pearly  Nautilus  Shell. 

animal.  The  delicate  papery  shell  of  the  argonaut  is 
made  by  two  of  the  arms  of  the  animal,  and  therefore 
does  not  agree  with  the  true  shell  of  the  other  nautilus. 
Cuttlefishes,  however,  have  undergone  a  very  large 
amount  of  modification  as  living  forms.  To-day  it  is 
the  sepias  and  the  octopi  and  their  kith  and  kin  which 
swarm  in  the  seas.  They  are  active,  free-swimming 
animals,  which  do  not  depend  on  a  shell  for  protec- 


A  CUTTLE-BONE.  47 

tion,  as  does  the  pearly  nautilus  of  to-day,  or  as  did 
the  old  extinct  and  fossil  allies  of  the  last-named 
animal.  They  are  wary  and  agile  in  all  their  move- 
ments, and  have  apparently  got  rid  of  their  shells 
entirely ;  just  as  the  slug  of  the  garden  has  re- 
linquished his  shell  (seen  in  his  young  state),  while 
his  neighbour  the  snail  has  retained  that  possession 
of  molluscan  life. 

Yet  closer  examination  reveals  that  the  sepia  and 
octopus  and  other  modern  cuttlefishes  have  not  wholly 
surrendered  their  shell-making  instinct ;  for,  lying  on 
their  backs,  imbedded  in  their  "  mantles,"  we  find 
shells  of  rudimentary  description.  This  shell  in  the 
sepia  is  the  "  cuttle-bone  "  of  the  *  A 

bird-shop  and  drug-store. 

It  is  a  lingering  remnant  of 
shells  which,  once  upon  a  time, 
were  very  well  developed  in  the 
ancestors  of  the  sepia  and  its 
friends.  It  has  dwindled  away 
till  it  has  become  a  mere  plate  of  Figt  is._spiruiaand 
lime,  bearing  faint  and  feeble  traces  its  shell. 

of  a  once  complex  structure.  In  the  squids  or  loligos, 
which  are  used  so  largely  for  bait  by  the  Newfound- 
land fishermen,  the  shell  has  become  degraded  until 
it  forms  a  mere  horny  "  pen."  So  that  what  my  friend 
purloined  from  the  canary's  cage  is  really  a  curious 
example  of  a  shell  that  has  gone  to  the  wall  in  the 
struggle  for  existence,  simply  because  it  was  not  needed 
in  the  life  and  wants  of  the  modern  cuttlefishes. 

This  much  is  certain  from  ordinary  natural  history 
science  alone.  If,  however,  we  were  inclined  to  doubt 
the  correctness  of  the  inferences  we  have  drawn,  we 
should  be  able  to  find  additional  proofs  in  the  shape 


48  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

of  other  cuttlefishes.  The  extinct  belemnites  are 
cuttlefishes  in  which  the  shell  had  become  internal, 
while  still  retaining  many  of  the  characters  of  an  out- 
side shell. 

In  the  little  living  spirula  (fig.  15)  the  shell,  we 
observe,  is  becoming  internal.  So  that  we  have  all 
the  stages  at  command — showing  us  how  an  outside 
shell  in  these  animals  has  become  internal ;  how  it 
has  become  further  degraded  ;  how  it  has  attained  to 
a  yet  more  elementary  structure ;  and,  finally,  how, 
being  no  longer  needed  by  the  animal,  it  makes  its 
appearance  in  the  guise  of  a  mere  plate  of  lime, 
gathered  from  the  sea-beach  to  feed  our  birds  with 
their  mineral  food  under  the  name  of  the  "  cuttle- 
bone." 


IX. 

B  Curious  Golong* 

THE  fine  weather  tempted  me  the  other  day  to  visit 
an  old  haunt  of  mine  situated  on  the  shores  of  the 
Firth  of  Forth.  This  haunt,  or  "  howf,"  to  use  the 
Scotch  equivalent,  is  famous  alike  for  zoological  ex- 
cursions (by  sea),  for  its  fishing  industries,  and  last, 
though  by  no  means  least,  for  its  fish  dinners.  A 
kind  of  Scottish  Greenwich  this,  but  with  a  prospect 
fair  to  see,  and  far  exceeding  the  Thames  in  respect 
of  its  scenery  and  surroundings.  Before  you  lie  the 
blue  hills  of  Fife ;  away  to  the  east  Inchkeith  stands 
out  on  the  bosom  of  the  Firth ;  and  North  Berwick 
Law  can  be  easily  seen  on  a  fine  day,  reminding  you 
of  an  ancient  Vesuvius  which,  once  upon  a  time,  may 
have  belched  forth  fire  and  fury  on  the  now  quiet  and 
respectable  county  of  Haddington  itself.  Along  the 
quaint  High  Street  of  Newhaven  you  meet  with  the 
fisher-folk.  The  women  with  their  caps  suggest  the 
North  of  France  at  once  to  your  mind  ;  and  the  blue 
eyes  and  fair  hair  you  meet  with  now  and  again  tell 
their  own  story  of  Norse  blood  and  of  Viking  invasion 
and  settlement  on  the  Eastern  Scottish  coasts. 

To-day,  Newhaven  is  dull  and  deserted.  An  air 
of  melancholy  seems  to  have  marked  the  place  for  its 
own.  A  few  ancient  mariners  loll  on  the  pier-head 


50  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

and  discuss  the  enormities  and  iniquities  of  steam 
trawlers  in  the  monosyllabic  and  disjointed  style  of 
talk  which  characterises  folk  who  spend  most  of  their 
lives  at  sea.  For  your  fisherman  is  a  thoughtful  soul, 
who  dislikes  being  hurried  over  his  talk,  and  who 
requires  time  to  think  out  his  ideas,  and  to  express 
them  in  words.  There  is  nothing  doing  to-day  in 
the  village,  and  I  betake  myself  to  the  end  of  the 
pier,  and  enjoy  the  ozone  and  the  fair  prospect 
before  me. 

You  are  always  certain   to  find  food  for  reflection 


Fig.  16.— A  "Sea-fir." 

at  Newhaven,  however,  if  you  are  that  way  inclined. 
The  pier  to-day  is  littered  with  what  I  suppose  the 
non-scientific  mind  would  call  seaweed.  They  lie  in 
thick  masses  at  one's  feet  as  they  have  been  stripped 
off  the  lines  of  the  fishermen.  Let  us  pick  up  a  piece 
of  this  " seaweed"  (fig.  16)  and  note  its  structure. 

You  observe  it  resembles  a  fir-tree  in  miniature. 
Its  total  length  is  about  four  inches,  and  you  note 
that  it  grows  rooted  and  fixed  like  any  plant  on 


A  CURIOUS  COLONY.  51 

oyster-shells  and  other  objects.  Little  wonder  that 
it  is  called  a  sea-plant,  for  its  habits  and  its  appear- 
ance certainly  lend  support  to  that  view  of  its  nature. 
Scan  its  structure,  however,  a  little  more  closely  by 
aid  of  this  lens,  and  you  observe  that  in  place  of 
leaves  or  flowers  the  branches  bear  hundreds  of  little 
cups  set  in  each  side.  If  you  care  to  see  what  these 
cups  are  like  when  still  more  highly  magnified,  look 
at  fig.  \*J a.  You  perceive  they  are  of  definite  shape, 
and  do  not  agree  with  anything  you  recognise  as  be- 
longing to  the  world  of  plants.  In  truth,  this  "sea- 


Fig.  17. — Sea-fir,  largely  magnified,  showing  its  cups  (a) ;  at  b,  one  of  its 
egg-producing  capsules  is  shown. 

fir"  on  which  we  have  stumbled  is  not  a  plant  at  all. 
To  cut  short  speculation,  I  may  declare  that  it  is  a 
true  and  veritable  animal,  masquerading  in  the  like- 
ness of  a  plant. 

To  understand  the  constitution  of  the  sea-fir  you 
require  to  see  one  alive  under  the  microscope.  Then 
your  gaze  alights  on  a  curious  sight.  You  find  that 
each  of  these  cups  or  cells  is  tenanted  by  a  living 
animal.  Each  unit  of  this  colony  is  simple  enough 
in  structure.  It  consists  of  a  tubular  body,  bearing 


52  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

a  mouth  surrounded  by  tentacles  or  feelers,  used  for 
purposes  of  food  getting.  The  mouth  leads  directly 
into  the  simple  body ;  and  the  body,  in  its  turn, 
opens  below  into  the  branch  on  which  it  is  borne. 
Stem  and  branches  are,  in  fact,  hollow,  and  thus  form 
a  means  of  communication  between  all  the  units  of 
the  colony. 

Our  sea- fir  is  a  compound  or  colonial  animal,  which 
numbers  its  members  by  the  hundred.  It  is  some- 
thing more,  however.  It  appears  before  us  as  a 
typical  example  of  a  co-operative  society.  For  the 
colony  is  nourished,  not  by  the  labour  of  one,  but  by 
the  work  of  all  its  members.  Each  little  animal  unit 
captures  food  and  digests  it,  and  then  delivers  this 
nutriment  over  to  the  general  store  or  common  fund, 
which  is  circulating  always  through  the  hollow  stem 
and  branches  of  the  colony.  From  this  common  store 
each  unit  in  turn  draws  its  own  supply. 

There  is  perfect  co-operation  witnessed  here.  No 
wrangling  and  quarrelling,  such  as  intervene  in  higher 
societies,  exist.  Lower  life  knows  nothing  of  the 
overweening  ambition  of  the  twos  or  threes  over  the 
aims  of  the  mass.  There  is  no  question  or  claim 
of  precedence  in  the  sea-fir  democracy.  All  is  har- 
mony, equality,  fraternity  here ;  and  the  currents  of 
sea-fir  life  roll  onwards  undisturbed  by  the  passions 
of  higher  existence. 

You  are  curious  to  know  how  this  colony  has  come 
to  be  what  it  is.  The  story  is  a  simple  one.  Look 
at  fig.  17,  and  note  the  capsule  marked  b,  which  re- 
presents a  growth  that  can  be  seen  to  appear  in 
numbers  on  the  branches.  These  are  not  ordinary 
cups  or  cells.  They  do  not  shelter  ordinary  units  of 
the  society.  They  are  the  cradles  of  the  colony,  and 


A  CURIOUS  COLONY.  53 

within  them  are  developed  the  little  masses  of  living 
matter  which  represent  the  eggs  of  the  sea-fir. 
Sooner  or  later,  these  eggs  are  discharged  into  the 
sea.  Each  undergoes  the  special  development  of  its 
race.  It  swims  about  freely  for  a  time,  like  some 
errant  animalcule. 

Then  it  settles  down,  fixes  itself  to  its  oyster-shell, 
and  we  see  growing  out  of  the  settled-down  egg  the 
likeness  of  one  little  member  of  the  sea-fir  state. 
By-and-by  there  begins  a  process  of  budding — as 
truly  budding,  indeed,  as  is  seen  in  any  plant.  The 
result  of  this  process  is  to  produce  other  units  like 
itself.  The  budding  continues,  and  in  due  season 
we  behold  reproduced  the  connected  branched  colony 
with  which  we  started. 

That  is  the  history  of  every  sea-fir  you  may  find. 
It  arose  from  an  egg  which  was  developed  in  the  egg- 
capsule  of  a  pre-existing  colony ;  and  it  grew  to  its 
vegetable  form  by  its  imitation  of  the  ways  of  increase 
we  see  in  every  plant.  This  history  might  be  in- 
definitely prolonged. 

I  might  tell  you  of  near  neighbours  of  the  sea-fir 
whose  reproductive  buds  are  represented  by  veritable 
free -swimming  jelly-fishes,  which  mature  the  eggs 
from  which  in  turn  the  colonies  in  due  time  spring. 
The  main  features  of  sea-fir  life  are  unaffected  by  the 
complexities  of  its  neighbours  ;  and  to-day,  on  New- 
haven  Pier,  you  have  at  least  learned  one  lesson  in 
science — that  animal  life  may  closely  imitate  plant- 
existence  in  form  and  function,  and  that  it  is  not 
always  the  higher  life  which  most  perfectly  illus- 
trates co-operation  and  that  unity  in  which  we  are 
so  strongly  advised  perpetually  to  dwell. 


X. 

H  $it  of  Sponcte. 

THIS  morning,  despite  the  promise  of  rain  over-night, 
has  broken  with  all  the  signs  and  symptoms  of  a  bright 
July  day.  The  Firth  is  bathed  in  sunlight,  and  the 
wavelets  at  full  tide,  are  kissing  the  strand,  making  a 
soft  musical  ripple  as  they  retire,  and  as  the  pebbles 
run  down  the  sandy  slope  on  the  retreat  of  the  waves. 
Beyond  the  farthest  contact  of  the  tide  is  a  line  of 
seaweed  dried  and  desiccated,  mixed  up  with  which, 
in  confusing  array,  are  masses  of  shells,  and  such 
olla  podrida  of  the  sea. 

Tossed  up  at  our  very  feet  is  a  dried  fragment  of 
sponge,  which,  doubtless,  the  unkind  waves  tore  from 
its  rocky  bed.  It  is  not  a  large  portion  of  sponge 
this,  but  its  structure  is  nevertheless  to  be  fairly  made 
out,  and  some  reminiscences  of  its  history  gleaned, 
for  the  sake  of  occupying  the  by  no  means  "  bad  half- 
hour  "  before  breakfast.  "  What  is  a  sponge  ?  "  is  a 
question  which  you  may  well  ask  as  a  necessary  pre- 
liminary to  the  understanding  of  its  personality. 

The  questionings  of  childhood  and  the  questionings 
of  science  run  in  precisely  similar  grooves.  "  What 
is  it  ?  "  and  "  How  does  it  live  ?  "  and  "  Where  does 
it  come  from  ?  "  are  equally  the  inquiries  of  childhood, 
and  of  the  deepest  philosophy  which  seeks  to  determine 


A  BIT  OF  SPONGE. 


55 


the  whole  history  of  life.  This  morning,  we  cannot 
do  better  than  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  child,  and 
to  the  question,  "  What  is  a  sponge  ?  "  I  fancy  science 
will  be  able  to  return  a  direct  answer. 

First  of  all,  we  may  note  that  a  sponge,  as  we  know 
it  in  common  life,  is  the  horny  skeleton  or  framework 
which  was  made  by,  and  which  supported,  the  living 
parts.  These  living  parts  consist  of  minute  masses 
of  that  living  jelly  to  which  the  name  of  protoplasm  has 


Fig.  18. — Development  of  a  Sponge  (Olynthus). 

i,  The  egg ;  2,  3,  and  4,  the  process  of  egg-division  ;  5  and  6,  the  gastrula- 
stage  ;  7,  the  perfect  sponge. 

been  applied.  This,  in  truth,  is  the  universal  matter 
of  life.  It  is  the  one  substance  with  which  life  every- 
where is  associated,  and  as  we  see  it  simply  in  the 
sponge,  so  also  we  behold  it  (only  in  more  complex 
guise)  in  the  man.  Now,  the  living  parts  of  this  dried 
cast-away  sponge  were  found  both  in  its  interior  and 
on  its  surface.  They  lined  the  canals  that  everywhere 

5 


56  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

permeate  the  sponge-substance,  and  microscopic  exa- 
mination has  told  us  a  great  deal  about  their  nature. 

For,  whether  found  in  the  canals  of  the  sponge 
themselves,  or  embedded  in  the  sponge-substance,  the 
living  sponge-particles  are  represented  each  by  a  semi- 
independent  mass  of  protoplasm.  So  that  the  first 
view  I  would  have  you  take  of  the  sponge  as  a  living 
mass,  is,  that  it  is  a  colony  and  not  a  single  unit.  It 
is  composed,  in  other  words,  of  aggregated  masses  of 
living  particles,  which  bud  out  one  from  the  other,  and 
manufacture  the  supporting  skeleton  we  know  as  "  the 
sponge  of  commerce  "  itself.  Under  the  microscope, 
these  living  sponge-units  appear  in  various  guises  and 
shapes.  Some  of  them  are  formless,  and,  as  to  shape, 
ever-altering  masses,  resembling  that  familiar  animal- 
cule of  our  pools  we  know  as  the  Amoeba.  These 
members  of  the  sponge-colony  form  the  bulk  of  the 
population.  They  are  embedded  in  the  sponge  sub- 
stance ;  they  wander  about  through  the  meshes  of  the 
sponge ;  they  seize  food  and  flourish  and  grow  ;  and 
they  probably  also  give  origin  to  the  "eggs"  from 
which  new  sponges  are  in  due  course  produced. 

More  characteristic,  however,  are  certain  units  of 
this  living  sponge-colony  which  live  in  the  lining 
membrane  of  the  canals.  In  point  of  fact,  a  sponge 
is  a  kind  of  Venice,  a  certain  proportion  of  whose 
inhabitants,  like  those  of  the  famous  Queen  of  the 
Adriatic  herself,  live  on  the  banks  of  the  waterways. 
Just  as  in  Venice  we  find  the  provisions  for  the 
denizens  of  the  city  brought  to  the  inhabitants  by 
the  canals,  so  from  the  water,  which,  as  we  shall  see,  is 
perpetually  circulating  through  a  sponge,  the  members 
of  the  sponge-colony  receive  their  food. 

Look,  again,  at  the  sponge-fragment  which  lies  before 


A  BIT  OF  SPONGE.  57 

us.  You  perceive  half-a-dozen  large  holes  or  so,  each 
opening  on  a  little  eminence,  as  it  were.  These  aper- 
tures, bear  in  mind,  we  call  oscula.  They  are  the  exits 
of  the  sponge-dominion.  But  a  close  inspection  of  a 
sponge  shows  that  it  is  riddled  with  finer  and  smaller 
apertures.  These  latter  are  the  pores,  and  they  form 
the  entrances  to  the  sponge-domain. 

On  the  banks  of  the  canal  you  may  see  growing 
plentifully  in  summer  time  a  green  sponge,  which  is 
the  common  fresh-water  species.  Now,  if  you  drop 
a  living  specimen  of  this  species  into  a  bowl  of  water, 
and  put  some  powdered  indigo  into  the  water,  you 
may  note  how  the  currents  are  perpetually  being 
swept  in  by  the  pores  and  out  by  the  oscula.  In 
every  living  sponge  this  perpetual  and  unceasing  cir- 
culation of  water  proceeds.  This  is  the  sole  evidence 
the  unassisted  sight  receives  of  the  vitality  of  the 
sponge-colony,  and  the  importance  of  this  circulation 
in  aiding  life  in  these  depths,  to  be  fairly  carried  out 
cannot  readily  be  over-estimated. 

Let  us  now  see  how  this  circulation  is  maintained. 
Microscopically  regarded,  we  see  here  and  there,  in  the 
sides  of  the  sponge-passages,  little  chambers  or  recesses 
which  remind  one  of  the  passing-places  in  a  narrow 
canal.  Lining  these  chambers,  we  see  living  sponge- 
units  of  a  type  different  from  the  shapeless  specks  we 
noted  to  occur  in  the  meshes  of  the  sponge  substance 
itself.  The  units  of  the  recesses  each  consist  of  a 
living  particle,  whose  free  extremity  is  raised  into  a 
kind  of  collar,  from  which  projects  a  lash-like  filament 
known  as  a  flagellum. 

This  lash  is  in  constant  movement.  It  waves  to 
and  fro  in  the  water,  and  the  collection  of  lashes  we 
see  in  any  one  chamber  acts  as  a  veritable  brush, 


58  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

which  by  its  movement  not  only  sweeps  water  in  by 
the  pores,  but  sends  it  onwards  through  the  sponge, 
and  in  due  time  sends  it  out  by  the  bigger  holes,  or 
oscula.  This  constant  circulation  in  the  sponge  dis- 
charges more  than  one  important  function.  For,  as 
already  noted,  it  serves  the  purpose  of  nutrition,  in 
that  the  particles  on  which  sponge-life  is  supported 
are  swept  into  the  colony. 

Again,  the  fresh  currents  of  water  carry  with  them 
the  oxygen  gas  which  is  a  necessity  of  sponge  exist- 
ence, as  of  human  life ;  while,  thirdly,  waste  matters, 
inevitable  alike  in  sponge  and  in  man  as  the  result 
of  living,  are  swept  out  of  the  colony,  and  discharged 
into  the  sea  beyond.  Our  bit  of  sponge  has  thus 
grown  from  a  mere  dry  fragment  into  a  living  reality. 
It  is  a  community  in  which  already,  low  as  it  is,  the 
work  of  life  has  come  to  be  discharged  by  distinct  and 
fairly  specialised  beings. 

The  era  of  new  sponge-life  is  inaugurated  by  means 
of  egg-development,  although  there  exists  another 
fashion  (that  of  gemmules  or  buds)  whereby  out  of 
the  parental  substance  young  sponges  are  produced. 
A  sponge-egg  develops,  as  do  all  eggs,  in  a  definite 
cycle.  It  undergoes  division  (fig.  1 8);  its  one  cell 
becomes  many  ;  and  its  many  cells  arrange  themselves 
first  of  all  into  a  cup-like  form  (5,  6  and  7),  which 
may  remain  in  this  shape  if  the  sponge  is  a  simple 
one,  or  become  developed  into  the  more  complex  shape 
of  the  sponges  we  know. 

In  every  museum  you  may  see  specimens  of  a 
beautiful  vase-like  structure  seemingly  made  of  spun- 
glass.  This  is  a  flinty  sponge,  the  "  Venus  flower- 
basket/'  whose  presence  in  the  sponge  family  redeems 
it  from  the  charge  that  it  contains  no  things  of  beauty 


A  BIT  OF  SPONGE.  59 

whatever.  So,  too,  the  rocks  are  full  of  fossil-sponges, 
many  of  quaint  form.  Our  piece  of  sponge,  as  we  may 
understand,  has  yet  other  bits  of  history  attached  to 
it  which  another  day's  talk  may  reveal.  The  break- 
fast bell  warns  us  that  science  in  another  form  (that 
of  human  nutrition)  awaits  our  practical  study.  Mean- 
while, think  over  the  sponge  and  its  ways,  and  learn 
from  it  that  out  of  the  dry  things  of  life,  science  weaves 
many  a  fairy  tale. 


XI. 

IRfng  of  jftebes." 

THIS  morning,  a  walk  through  the  woods  will  give  us 
an  appetite  for  breakfast,  and  start  us  fairly,  perchance, 
on  the  spending  of  at  least  one  holiday.  I  can  pro- 
mise you  a  fair  prospect  in  so  far  as  the  walk  itself 
is  concerned,  with  something  interesting  at  the  end  of 
our  stroll.  The  woods  this  morning  are  redolent  of 
balsamic  odours,  for  which  we  have  to  thank  the  tall 
pines  and  firs  that,  like  sable  mourners  draped  in 
plumes,  flank  the  pathway  for  half  a  mile  or  more. 

Every  leaf  glistens  with  the  jewels  of  the  dew,  and 
these  "  top  lights,"  as  an  artist  friend  calls  them, 
which  the  sunlight  throws  down  from  above,  and  from 
among  the  thick  mass  of  overhanging  foliage,  make 
the  vista  before  us  seem  almost  interminable — such 
is  the  marvellous  effect  of  light  and  shade  cunningly 
interspersed.  The  bracken  forms  the  undergrowth  of 
the  woods,  and  gives  covert  and  concealment  to  the 
hosts  of  rabbits  that  swarm  in  the  plantations  around. 
Beyond  the  edge  of  the  wood,  parallel  to  the  pathway 
we  are  treading,  lies  the  frith. 

You  note  this  arm  of  the  sea,  appearing  in  all  sorts 
of  odd  corners  and  ways,  as  you  ramble  through  the 
fine  old  woods.  Now  and  then,  through  some  sudden 
crevice  or  break  in  the  screen  formed  by  leaf  and  stem, 


«  THE  KING  OF  FISHES."  61 

you  may  perceive  the  fair  coast  on  the  other  side  of 
the  sea,  lying  bathed  in  sunlight.  An  open  stretch 
beyond  shows  us  a  beautiful  sandy  patch  of  beach,  and 
round  the  cliff  there  is  another  mile  or  two  of  sand. 
Nestling  almost  under  the  cliff  is  a  solid,  well-built 
cottage.  Rows  of  stakes  run  out  into  the  sea  from 
the  beach,  and  these  bear  a  net  which  twice  or  thrice 
expands  into  pockets  as  the  stakes  depart  from  the 
straight  line  and  assume  a  semicircular  form. 

Piles  of  stakes  are  stacked  at  the  door  of  the  cot- 
tage, nets  hang  about  in  profusion,  and  a  coble  or  flat- 
bottomed  punt  (with  a  prow)  is  drawn  up  on  the  beach 
close  to  the  shelly  margin  which  marks  the  highest 
lap  of  the  tide.  Long-shaped  baskets  made  with 
strong  osiers  are  packed  and  ready  to  be  carted  off  to 
the  nearest  town.  The  baskets  are  stuffed  apparently 
with  the  bracken  fern  that  grows  so  profusely  around  ; 
but  a  tail,  sticking  out  beyond  the  fern-packing  here 
and  there,  reveals  the  fact  that  the  king  of  fishes  is 
being  sent  off  to  the  town,  and  that  we  are  beholding 
the  scene  of  his  capture  and  of  his  ensnaring  by  the 
arts  of  man  from  his  native  depths. 

The  salmon  fishery  before  us  is  an  old  institution. 
Capture  here,  smacks  of  the  conventional.  There  is 
no  play  with  rod  and  line,  no  hour  or  two  of  humour- 
ing your  fish,  of  tiring  him  out,  and  of  finally  landing 
him  triumphantly  on  the  sward  by  aid  of  the  lethal 
"cleek."  Not  in  vain,  however,  do  our  sunburnt 
friends,  the  fishers,  spread  their  nets  out  into  the  sea. 
Stake-nets  and  drift-nets  capture  the  silvery  fishes 
readily  enough  ;  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  how 
many  pounds'  weight  of  salmon  may  be  carried  off  to 
the  city  in  a  single  day,  after  a  big  haul. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  one  thing  is  certain — that  the 


62  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

salmon  is,  of  all  our  British  fishes,  the  most  notable, 
whether  we  regard  it  in  its  zoological  or  in  its  purely 
social  phases.  True,  the  herring  runs  the  salmon  very 
close  indeed  as  a  competitor  for  public  favour.  I  have 
heard  people,  years  after  the  event,  recall  to  remem- 
brance the  flavour  of  the  Loch  Fyne  herrings  they 
had  had  served  up  to  breakfast  on  board  the  floating 
palaces  owned  by  Mr.  MacBrayne  of  Clyde  and  Oban 
fame.  Doubtless  one  may  tire  very  readily  of  salmon, 
for  it  is  an  oily  fish  withal ;  but  it  is  certainly  agree- 
able enough  while  the  taste  for  it  lasts,  although  your 
herring  is  always  welcome,  and,  properly  cooked — 
that  is,  split  open  and  not  fried  whole — cannot  pos- 
sibly be  excelled  by  any  fish  that  swims. 

However,  these  are  desultory  thoughts,  and  we  will 
own  the  salmon  the  sovereign  of  the  finny  races,  if 
you  will.  Like  most  royal  personages,  the  salmon  has 
a  history ;  and  it  is  astonishing  that  so  little  is  popu- 
larly known  of  the  fish  and  its  biography.  True,  that 
history  was  for  long  a  most  debatable  matter.  The 
genealogy  of  the  fish  was  by  no  means  perfectly 
understood  until  within  relatively  recent  years,  owing 
chiefly  to  certain  peculiarities  which  mark  the  manner 
of  its  becoming,  and  which  characterise  the  fashion 
in  which  it  spends  the  days  of  its  youth. 

From  a  tiny  egg  the  salmon  springs,  like  every 
other  living  animal  of  any  respectability  as  regards 
rank  in  the  living  series.  Laid  in  a  kind  of  trench  or 
furrow  made  in  the  gravel  of  the  upper  reaches  of  the 
rivers  by  the  mother-fishes,  the  eggs  are  duly  fertilised 
by  the  males,  and  then,  covered  up  by  the  parents 
with  gravel,  the  eggs  undergo  their  preliminary  stages 
of  development.  The  spawning  goes  on  in  the  late 
autumn  and  winter  months,  and  may  therefore  be  said 


"THE  KING  OF  FISHES."  63 

to  begin  about  the  month  of  September,  and  to  end 
about  January. 

Each  river  shows  its  own  peculiarities,  however, 
as  regards  the  spawning  season ;  but  after  a  period, 
varying  in  duration  from  seventy  to  ninety,  or  even  a 
hundred  and  twenty  days  or  more,  the  young  salmon 
fry  hatch  out,  and  appear  as  active  little  fishes,  each 
with  the  yolk-sac  of  the  egg  still  in  process  of  absorp- 
tion. A  few  weeks,  however,  see  a  marked  change 
occur  to  the  young  salmon.  It  is  then  about  an  inch 
in  length,  its  sides  become  marked  by  dark  bands  of 
very  distinctive  kind,  and  it  is  known  to  naturalists 
and  fishers  as  the  parr. 

Long  ago,  there  raged  a  hot  controversy  over  the 
question,  "  Are  parr  the  young  of  salmon  ?  "  Thanks 
to  that  actual  observation  which  solves  so  many  pro- 
blems, and  which  would  save  so  much  discussion  if  it 
were  only  more  frequently  practised,  this  question  can 
be  affirmatively  answered.  Parr  are  salmon  in  the 
days  of  their  infancy.  Now,  however,  comes  a  strik- 
ing fact  in  salmon  history.  The  next  change  which 
the  youthful  fish  undergoes  is  that  of  leaving  off  its 
parr-dress  and  appearing  in  the  guise  of  the  smolt. 
We  now  know  that  some  of  the  parr  don  their  smolt 
guise  between  thirteen  and  fifteen  months  after  they 
are  hatched ;  while  others,  and  by  far  the  greater 
proportion  of  the  parr,  do  not  become  smolts  until 
twenty-six  months  after  they  leave  the  egg. 

Once  having  donned  the  smolt-dress,  the  salmon, 
now  in  the  days  of  its  youth,  seeks  the  sea.  Up  to 
this  period  it  has  been  a  freshwater  dweller.  Between 
March  and  June  the  smolts  hurry  to  the  ocean.  There 
we  lose  sight  of  them  for  a  few  months ;  but,  when 
they  reappear,  we  find  that,  as  we  say  of  our  friends 


64  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

arid  neighbours  after  a  holiday-season,  their  trip  to 
the  sea  has  worked  wonders.  They  went  to  the  sea, 
smolts,  trifling  in  size  :  they  return  as  grilse,  weigh- 
ing, it  may  be,  four  or  five  pounds,  having,  through 
the  luxurious  feeding  they  have  enjoyed  in  the  ocean, 
become  young  salmon,  able  to  produce  eggs. 

For  this  purpose,  indeed,  the  grilse  has  returned  to 
its  river,  and  many  fishers  hold  that  it  never  returns 
to  any  river  save  that  which  gave  it  birth.  This, 
indeed,  was  Frank  Buckland's  own  opinion  :  but  one 
may  venture  to  think  that  the  returning  grilse  or 
salmon,  while,  as  a  rule,  entering  its  native  river, 
does  not  invariably  choose  its  original  waters.  After 
spawning,  the  grilse  goes  back  to  the  sea  in  the  winter 
or  spring,  and,  on  its  next  visit  to  the  river,  appears 
before  us  as  the  salmon.  Year  by  year  it  will  increase 
in  size,  until  it  may  attain  the  dimensions  of  the 
"  forty-pounder "  you  heard  the  fishermen  speak  of 
the  other  day.  Salmon  have  been  caught  weighing 
seventy  pounds ;  but  this  was,  no  doubt,  a  giant  of 
its  tribe,  such  as  we  seldom  see. 


XII. 

Starffsbes, 

"As  there  are  stars  in  the  sky,  so  there  are  stars  in 
the  sea,"  remarks  an  old  writer,  whose  knowledge  of 
things  in  general,  if  not  very  specific,  was,  at  least,  of  a 
fairly  wide  nature.  The  remark  occurred  to  my  mind 
this  morning  when,  during  a  stroll  along  the  sea-beach, 
I  came  upon  a  familiar  "  five-ray  "  lying  in  a  truly  help- 
less condition  on  the  sand.  There  is  nothing  more 
helpless-looking  in  nature,  I  should  say,  than  a  star- 
fish cast  up  on  the  sandy  beach  by  the  unkind  waves. 
Placed  among  rocks  or  near  seaweed-clad  pools,  our 
sea-star  is  quite  at  home.  Even  if,  like  a  helpless 
and  floored  turtle,  he  has  been  turned  over  on  his 
back,  he  will  contrive  to  right  himself,  and  escape  to 
his  watery  abode,  or  move  with  his  slow  and  stately 
walk  over  the  rocks.  But  he  seems  to  feel  that  the 
sand  is  a  disagreeable  and  shifty  form  of  surrounding, 
and  he  makes  little  or  no  effort  to  bestir  himself,  but 
lies  flaccid  and  limp  until,  perchance,  the  returning 
tide  sweeps  him  off  into  the  welcome  depths. 

My  sea-star  of  this  morning  is  lying  face  upper- 
most in  the  sun,  and,  if  he  could  pant  as  does  the 
higher  animal,  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  indicate  his 
resentment  in  that  familiar  fashion.  As  it  is,  you  can 
see  the  tube-feet,  which  exist  in  dozens  in  the  grooves 


66 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


that  run  along  his  rays  or  arms,  moving  backwards 
and  forwards,  here  and  there,  as  if  in  protest  at  the 
treatment  to  which  their  owner  is  being  subjected. 
Truly,  an  unkind  fate  has  taken  the  star  from  its 
watery  firmament  and  stranded  it  at  our  feet,  which 
shows,  in  truth,  that  accidents  and  emergencies  befall 
humble  beings  as  well  as  creatures  of  high  estate. 
There  is  some  consolation,  I  think,  even  for  mankind, 


Fig.  19. — Starfishes. 

i,  The  Common  Starfish  ;  2,  A  Cushion  Star ;  3,  A  Starfish  with  one  perfect  ray 
and  four  new  rays  budding  out ;  4,  A  Smooth  Starfish ;  5,  A  Brittle  Star. 

in  the  spectacle  of  untoward  events  troubling  what 
mind  even  a  starfish  may  be  regarded  as  legitimately 
possessing. 

Protruding  from  the  starfish  mouth,  which  exists  in 
the  very  centre  of  its  under-surface,  we  see  a  clear 
jelly-like  mass.  This  is  part  and  parcel  of  the 
stomach,  which  extends  into  the  rays  of  the  animal. 
It  may  be  that  our  star  is  taking  this  rather  inelegant 


STARFISHES.  67 

mode  of  showing  its  disgust  at  the  contretemps  which 
has  beset  it  this  morning ;  but,  all  the  same,  this  pro- 
trusion of  the  stomach  may  be  the  result  of  a  habit  of 
the  animal.  If  you  were  to  ask  any  of  the  fishermen 
— who,  as  becomes  the  ways  of  nautical  persons,  are 
promenading  up  and  down  in  a  kind  of  set  groove  on 
the  pier,  and  exchanging  monosyllabic  ideas  with  their 
neighbours  between  their  frequent  glances  seawards — 
what  the  starfish  does  with  its  stomach,  you  would  be 
provided  with  a  speedy  reply.  They  would  tell  you 
that  the  sea-stars  are  enemies  of  the  oyster-beds,  and 
may  add  that  they  kill  more  oysters  than  mankind 
consumes. 

Hence,  whenever  a  starfish  is  found  in  the  dredge, 
it  is  ruthlessly  torn  in  pieces  and  flung  overboard  as 
a  just  recompense  for  its  predatory  habits.  How  far 
the  fishermen's  views  of  starfish  guilt  are  justified  I 
scarcely  know;  but  I  should  say  their  opinions  are 
not  without  warrant.  You  may  often  pick  up  a  star- 
fish on  the  beach  which  has  its  arms  coiled  up  until 
it  has  come  to  resemble  a  living  ball,  like  its  neigh- 
bour the  sea-urchin. 

Disentangling  the  starfish  and  its  arms,  you  find  it 
has  been  embracing  a  whelk,  and,  as  you  liberate  the 
shell-fish  from  the  grasp  of  the  star,  you  draw  forth 
from  the  shell  the  stomach  of  the  starfish.  It  has 
been  slowly  sucking  out  of  the  shell  the  substance  of 
its  living  tenant,  and  that  it  preys  upon  its  molluscan 
neighbours  is,  therefore,  matter  of  certainty.  Whether 
it  can  attack  the  oyster  is,  however,  quite  a  different 
matter.  That  mollusc  is  as  secure  within  its  shell  as 
a  baron  of  old  in  his  fortified  citadel.  By  closing  its 
shell,  it  can  certainly  entrench  itself  in  a  fashion  which 
no  starfish  can  readily  break  through. 


68  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Yet  oysters  have  to  open  their  shells  in  time  in 
order  to  breathe  by  inhaling  the  water;  so  that  it 
may  be,  our  starfish,  clasping  its  oyster,  bides  its 
time,  and  when  the  shell  is  opened  attacks  the 
mollusc.  There  are  difficulties,  however,  in  the  way 
of  accepting  the  fishermen's  belief,  for  the  eviction  of 
an  oyster  from  its  shell  by  a  starfish  would,  on  the 
best  showing,  be  a  very  long  and  laborious  matter. 
One  belief  of  naturalists  is  that  the  starfish  poisons 
the  oyster  by  inserting  from  its  stomach,  between  the 
valves  of  the  shell,  some  poisonous  secretion,  which 
compels  the  mollusc  to  capitulate  and  surrender. 
Anyhow,  the  belief  is  a  curious  one,  and  one  may 
not  be  surprised  if  on  this  occasion  the  fishermen's 
ideas  are  regarded  with  greater  favour  than  science 
usually  accords  to  the  folk-lore  of  the  dwellers  by 
the  sea. 

Drop  the  starfish  into  this  pool  and  watch  its 
movements.  You  have  seen  the  hundreds  of  little 
tube-feet,  each  ending  in  a  sucker,  which  the  grooves 
on  the  under  side  of  the  rays  contain.  You  observe 
that  it  soon  begins  to  crawl  over  the  patch  of  rock  on 
which  it  has  been  dropped.  Turn  it  over  on  its  back 
in  the  water,  and  observe  how  the  feet  move  and 
wriggle.  Let  us  watch  how  the  capsized  animal 
rights  itself.  Slowly  but  deliberately  you  see  it 
twists  over  the  tip  of  two  of  its  rays,  until  the  tube- 
feet  have  become  attached  to  the  rock. 

This  is  to  give  it  a  fulcrum  or  point  d'appui,  from 
which  to  lever  itself  back  to  a  respectable  position. 
The  tips  of  these  rays  are  firmly  fixed  to  the  rock, 
and  in  turn  the  under  parts  of  the  two  rays  are 
brought  by  the  successive  attachment  of  their  feet  in 
contact  with  the  rock-surface.  Acting  as  levers,  the 


STARFISHES.  69 

rays,  which,  as  we  have  seen,  are  each  moment  in- 
creasing their  surface  of  attachment  to  the  rock,  are 
finally  fully  fixed  thereto.  Finally  the  body  and  other 
rays  are  twisted  or  swept  over,  and  the  star  finds  itself 
at  last  in  its  natural  position  mouth  downwards. 

These  tube-feet  are  unique  as  regards  the  starfish 
class.  You  may  note  on  the  upper  surface  of  the 
star,  at  the  angle  formed  by  the  juncture  of  two  of 
the  rays  with  the  body,  a  round  plate.  This  is  the 
"  madreporiform  plate,"  and,  like  the  lid  of  a  pepper- 
box, it  is  perforated  with  holes.  It  acts  as  a  strainer, 
and  keeps  solid  matters  from  getting  into  the  tube  to 
which  it  serves  as  an  entrance.  This  tube  leads 
downwards  to  another  and  circular  tube,  inside  the 
starfish  body  and  surrounding  its  mouth.  From  this 
circular  tube  pass  five  other  tubes,  one  for  each  ray. 

Now,  if  we  dissected  our  starfish,  you  would  find 
that  the  tube-feet  are  given  off  from  the  main  tube  01 
each  ray  or  arm,  and  each  tube-foot  has  at  its  attached 
end,  or  base,  a  little  bag  or  sac.  The  whole  apparatus 
I  have  described  is  one  whereby,  through  the  admis- 
sion of  water  to  the  system  of  tubes,  the  tube-feet 
can  be  distended  or  the  reverse,  and  the  movements 
of  the  animal  be  duly  provided  for.  If  the  starfish 
wishes  to  walk,  water  is  sent  from  the  little  sacs  at- 
the  bases  of  the  feet  into  the  tubes.  These  latter  are 
thus  rendered  tense.  Their  suckers  are  applied  to  the 
rock-surface,  with  the  result  that  part  of  the  water  is 
forced  back  into  the  sacs,  the  sucker  is  left  firmly 
adherent  by  the  pressure  of  the  sea-water  outside. 
Then,  by  forcing  the  water  from  the  sac  into  the  tube- 
feet,  the  suckers  are  set  free,  and,  by  this  alternate 
contraction  and  expansion  of  the  tube- feet,  the  ad- 
hesion of  these  organs  or  their  freedom  is  secured. 


70  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Space  does  not  permit  that,  at  present,  I  should  sa^s 
anything  about  the  nerves  and  other  belongings  of  the 
sea-star.  It  is  a  "  steady  and  stolidy "  animal,  no 
doubt,  but  it  has  its  own  share  of  "  the  mind  uni- 
versal "  after  all.  Meanwhile,  we  shall  leave  it  in  its 
pool.  A  humane  action  in  restoring  the  star  to  its 
native  waters  has  perchance  brought  its  reward  in 
suggesting  the  thought  that  in  even  mean  creatures 
there  are  ways  and  works  well-nigh  past  finding  out. 


XIII. 


A  COLD,  bright  winter's  day  this,  in  which  the  sea 
air  blows  keen  and  sharp  from  the  Channel.  East- 
bourne this  morning,  however,  is  looking  its  best.  The 
sun  is  shining  as  brightly  as  if  it  had  mistaken  January 
for  April  or  May,  and  while  King  Fog  reigns  supreme 
in  London,  the  Sussex  coast  is  bathed  in  light.  The 
tide  has  receded  far  beyond  the  lower  parade  in  which 
Eastbourne  rejoices,  and  although  there  are  no  crowds 
of  promenaders  as  in  summer,  there  is  a  goodly  muster 
of  Eastbourne  natives  and  visitors  on  the  sea-face  of 
this  trim  little  town. 

Beachy  Head  looms  out  clear  and  sharp  before  us, 
and  ships  in  full  sail  are  beating  up  Channel  against 
wind  and  tide  alike.  A  fisherman  is  assorting  his  lines 
close  by  where  I  stand,  and  prophesies  "  a  bit  of  a 
blow  "  as  a  future  enjoyment.  But  the  present  aspect 
of  affairs  is  decidedly  spring-like,  and  the  smooth  sand 
before  us  looks  inviting  enough  for  a  stroll  in  search 
of  the  treasures  of  the  deep.  Stoutly  shod,  you  need 
not  fear  the  sand.  It  looks  wet,  but  that  is  a  mere 
optical  illusion,  after  all  is  said  and  done  ;  and  you 
may  spend  your  forenoon  to  better  purpose  —  both  in 
the  way  of  ozone  and  of  mental  enjoyment  —  in  a  stroll 


72  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

by  the  sea  than  in  lounging  in  those  cosy  rests  on  the 
parade  above. 

Away  Hastings  and  Pevensey  way,  the  sand 
stretches  smooth  and  inviting ;  towards  Beachy  Head, 
you  come  upon  rocks  and  stones,  which  form  a  haunt 
of  not  a  few  species  of  anemones  and  other  sequestered 
beings.  So,  setting  our  faces  to  the  wind,  we  start 
on  our  pilgrimage,  leaving  footprints  on  the  sands  of 
Eastbourne  as  we  trudge  manfully  down  to  where  the 
waves,  with  something  of  spent  fury  from  last  night's 
storm,  still  break  in  surf  upon  the  shore. 

This  stretch  of  bare  sand  looks  anything  but  promis- 
ing for  natural  history  students;  yet  among  the  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  the  waves  there  are  prizes  to  be  picked 
up,  often  in  large  numbers.  We  are  in  luck's  road 
this  morning,  for  here,  at  our  feet,  the  sea  has  tossed 
on  shore  a  curious  organism,  which,  at  first  sight, 
looks  like  a  spiny  apple  or  orange.  That  is  an 
Echinus  or  sea-urchin — the  "  sea  hedgehog  "  of  the 
ancients,  as  its  scientific  name  implies.  It  is  a  glo- 
bular mass,  this  we  have  found,  bristling  with  spines, 
and,  like  an  orange — or  the  world  itself — somewhat 
flattened  at  the  poles.  Looking  carefully  between  the 
spines  you  can  see  the  shell,  or  limy  case,  in  which  the 
soft  parts  of  the  animal  are  contained  ;  and  when  we 
arrive  at  home  we  shall  drop  it  into  that  aquarium  in 
which  our  Eastbourne  friends  delight,  and  notice  how 
life  progresses  within  the  sea-urchin's  domain. 

Meanwhile,  we  may  discuss  the  nature  of  the 
Echinus-body  on  which  we  have  thus  stumbled  by  a 
lucky  chance.  That  starfish  you  see  on  the  beach  is 
a  near  neighbour  of  the  sea-urchin,  although  the  rela- 
tionship may  not  be  apparent  on  a  superficial  acquaint- 
ance with  the  two  animals.  The  type  of  body  is, 


SEA-URCHINS.  73 

nevertheless,  the  same  ;  and  if  you  could  imagine  your 
starfish  doubled  up  into  a  ball-shaped  form,  so  that 
the  tips  of  its  five  rays  would  meet  together  at  the  top 
of  the  ball,  you  would  produce  a  tolerably  close  like- 
ness to  the  sea-urchin's  organisation. 


Fig,  20. — An  Echinus  viewed  climbing  on  the  glass  of  an  aquarium. 
The  mouth  and  its  five  jaws  are  seen  in  the  centre. 

Included  in  the  starfish  class  is  yet  another  type 
of  animals  known  as  the  sea-cucumbers.  These  are 
common  enough  round  our  coasts,  and  are  often 
brought  up  in  the  naturalist's  dredge.  The  sea- 
cucumbers  are  the  "  Trepangs  "  of  the  Eastern  Archi- 
pelago, and  dried  "  Trepang  "  is  a  dietetic  luxury  of 


74  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

John  Chinaman  when  at  home.  Now,  our  sea-cucumber, 
in  place  of  being  either  star-shaped  or  ball  like,  has  a 
body  of  somewhat  elongated  form.  At  the  mouth  end 
it  has  tentacles,  and  along  its  body  there  are  five  rows 
of  tube-feet.  So  that,  just  as  we  may  suppose  a  star- 
fish to  be  a  spread-out  sea-urchin,  we  may  compare 
our  sea-cucumber  to  a  sea-urchin  drawn  out  length- 
wise. All  three  types  of  the  starfish  family-circle,  in 
fact,  are  modelled  on  one  and  the  same  broad  plan. 

So  much  for  the  near  relations  of  the  sea-urchin, 
or  "sea-egg,"  as  it  is  also  named  when,  with  all  its 
spines  torn  off,  you  find  its  shell  lying  on  the  shore. 
We  pop  it  into  our  glass  tank,  and  in  a  short  time,  as 
sketched  in  the  above  illustration,  you  find  it  climbing 
up  the  side  of  its  abode.  That  aperture  you  see  in  the 
middle  of  the  body  is  its  mouth,  and  if  you  look  closely 
at  this  opening  you  may  see  projecting  therefrom  the 
tips  of  the  five  teeth  or  jaws,  which  form  the  so-called 
"  Lantern  of  Aristotle."  By  aid  of  these  jaws,  set  in 
movement  by  a  complex  set  of  muscles,  our  Echinus 
contrives  to  masticate  the  seaweeds  and  other  tid-bits 
on  which  it  subsists. 

Notice  next  how  the  sea-urchin  climbs  on  the  glass. 
These  round  white  spots  (each  with  an  aperture  in  the 
middle)  which  are  disposed  in  five  rows  running  up  and 
down  the  shell  from  top  to  bottom,  you  perceive,  on 
closer  examination,  to  be  tube-feet  (similar  to  those 
of  the  starfish),  each  capable  of  active  movement. 
These  feet  can  be  withdrawn  into  the  shell.  They 
are  protruded  through  holes  in  the  limy  casing  when 
movement  is  the  aim  of  sea-urchin  existence ;  and  in 
order  to  become  tense  and  stiff,  and  thus  enabled  to 
support  the  body,  the  feet  are  distended  with  water. 
When  not  required  for  movement,  the  water  is  ejected 


SEA-URCHINS.  75 

from  the  feet,  and  they  can  then  be  withdrawn  in 
their  soft  and  flaccid  condition  into  the  shell. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  how  the  organs  and  parts 
of  the  sea-urchin,  starfish,  and  sea-cucumber  bodies 
are  arranged  in  fives.  Look  at  this  dried  shell  of  the 
Echinus.  You  see  it  is  beautifully  built  up  of  six- 
sided  plates  of  lime,  firmly  united  to  one  another,  and 
arranged  in  ten  zones,  running  from  top  to  bottom  of 
the  shell.  Five  of  these  zones  are  perforated  with 
holes  for  the  emission  of  the  tube-feet ;  the  plates  of 
the  intervening  five  zones  being  imperforate.  Now, 
if  you  anatomise  the  sea-urchin's  body,  you  will  find 
therein  the  same  law  of  number  regulating  its  structure. 
There  are  five  chief  nerve- cords,  and  five  eyes  at  the 
top  of  the  shell ;  there  are  five  tubes  carrying  water 
to  the  feet,  and  there  are  five  main  blood-vessels.  The 
starfishes  show  the  same  number  of  parts,  and  so  do 
the  sea-cucumbers. 

If  we  were  dealing  with  plants,  we  should  call  this 
phase  of  matters  their  "  symmetry,"  for  you  find  that 
a  law  of  number  is  also  represented  in  flowers  and  their 
parts.  The  primrose  has  five  sepals,  five  petals,  five 
stamens,  and  five  carpels :  and  your  buttercup  has  the 
same  number  of  parts  in  sepals  and  petals,  while  its 
stamens  and  carpels  are  present  in  multiples  of  five. 
The  lilies,  tulips,  crocuses,  and  snowdrops,  on  the 
other  hand,  have  their  parts  developed  in  threes  or 
in  multiples  of  three.  So  that  we  observe  how  the 
arithmetic  of  living  Nature  is  not  represented  by  mere 
chance  in  her  modelling  work ;  and  in  the  starfish 
tribe  it  is  very  clear,  instead  of  considering  "  number 
one,"  as  the  phrase  runs,  she  may  be  said  to  have 
devoted  all  her  energies  to  "  number  five." 

The   sea-urchin   has   a  very   ancient   history   as   a 


76  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

family  group.  Away  back  in  the  mists  of  the  ages, 
sea-urchins  lived  in  primitive  seas,  and  left  their  fossils 
to  testify  to  the  long  descent  of  their  race.  Even 
to-day  the  family  group  possesses  certain  queer  mem- 
bers which  deep-sea  dredging  has  brought  to  light. 
In  one  of  these  rare  sea-urchins,  the  shell,  instead  of 
being  rigid  and  brittle,  has  its  plates  flexible. 

When  first  my  late  friends,  Dr.  W.  B.  Carpenter 
and  Sir  C.  Wyville  Thomson,  saw  this  flexible  urchin 
heaving  and  panting  on  the  deck  of  the  Porcupine, 
and  finally  collapsing  as  it  were,  the  one  remarked  to 
the  other,  "  This  looks  as  if  you  had  sat  on  it."  But 
although  these  aberrant  urchins  are  the  rarities  of 
science,  we  still  possess  in  the  homely  Echinus  of  our 
own  shallow  seas  a  creature  whose  whole  build  and 
history  is  nothing  short  of  a  natural  romance. 


XIV. 

Some  /l&teefc  IRelationsbips, 


IN  the  old  days  of  natural  history,  when  there  existed 
a  veritable  mania  for  defining  "species  "  of  animals  and 
plants,  and  when  a  man's  whole  energy  might  be 
absorbed  in  the  task  of  labelling  living  beings  as  if 
they  were  pots  and  pans  in  a  warehouse,  scarcely  any 
doubt  was  ascertained  regarding  the  exact  and  distinct 
nature  of  each  kind  of  living  thing.  A  crow,  a  chough, 
and  a  raven  are  probably  three  distinct  species  of 
birds.  They  are  distinguished  from  one  another  by 
certain  marks,  not,  it  must  be  admitted,  of  very  special 
character.  They  are,  nevertheless,  readily  recognised 
as  crows,  choughs,  and  ravens  respectively,  whenever 
they  are  scrutinised  by  the  practised  eye. 

Again,  their  young  hatch  out  into  crows,  choughs, 
and  ravens,  and  there  does  not  appear  to  be  any 
admixture  of  the  blood  or  breeds  of  these  birds.  So 
we  say  they  are  true  "  species  "  —  the  crow  resembles 
his  "  kind/'  and  the  chough  his  kind,  and  there,  it  might 
be  thought,  is  an  end  of  the  matter.  Unfortunately, 
however,  instead  of  the  matter  being  thus  finished  and 
done  with,  it  is  only  begun.  For,  first  of  all,  it  is 
clear  that  to-day  nobody  who  pretends  to  an  intelligent 
interest  in  the  world  of  life  rests  content  with  the 
assumption  that  these  birds  have  from  time  immemorial 


78  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

always  exhibited  the   slight   differences  on  which  our 
ideas  of  their  distinct  and  separate  nature  are  founded. 

We  are,  all  of  us,  anxious  to  pierce  by  the  eye  of 
scientific  faith  the  obscurity  in  which  the  past  of  living 
beings  lies  hid.  The  thought  is  borne  in  upon  us 
day  by  day  that,  so  far  from  species  of  animals  being 
"  steady  and  stolidy  "  quantities,  they  are  rather  to  be 
regarded  as  being  of  very  variable  nature  indeed. 
For  we  know  that  living  beings  do  vary  and  alter — 
some  to  a  great  extent,  others  scarcely  at  all,  but  one 
and  all  showing  a  tendency  or  bias  towards  change. 
If  this  idea  (which  I  need  hardly  add  is  the  basis  of 
all  modern  biological  thought)  be  admitted  as  worthy 
of  further  pursuit,  it  is  not  difficult  to  find  many 
examples  of  relationships  among  animals,  and  plants 
also,  which,  in  schoolboy  language,  appear  as  of  a 
decidedly  "  mixed  "  character. 

What,  for  example,  are  we  to  make  out  of  the  follow- 
ing case,  the  facts  of  which  are  perfectly  well  ascer- 
tained ?  On  oak-trees  grow  the  galls  which  are  used 
in  ink-making  and  in  medicine.  A  gall  is  an  excres- 
cence, which,  as  most  of  my  readers  know,  is  due  to 
the  work  of  an  insect.  The  gall-flies  (of  which  the 
best-known  group  is  that  called  Cynips)  thus  derive 
their  popular  name  from  their  habit  of  gall-production. 
The  mother  gall-fly  possesses  a  hollow  pointed  tube 
which  is  known  as  the  ovipositor.  Down  this  tube 
pass  the  eggs  which  she  fixes  on  the  oak-tree.  The 
gimlet-like  ovipositor  pierces  the  tree's  bark,  and  some 
irritating  fluid  is  doubtless  injected  into  the  plant- 
tissues  along  with  the  egg. 

At  any  rate,  the  tree  swells  at  the  seat  of  the  puncture, 
and  soon  the  gall  appears  ;  the  excrescence  developing 
in  this  way  as  the  investment  of  the  young  insect 


SOME  MIXED  RELATIONSHIPS. 


79 


which,  hatched  in  due  season  from  the  egg,  passes  its 
early  stages  within  the  vegetable  tissues.  Out  of  the 
gall,  when  its  time  arrives,  the  young  gall-fly  will  issue 
forth.  Now,  it  is  needless  to  say  that,  in  bygone  days, 
zoologists  very  faithfully  catalogued,  defined,  and  de- 
scribed the  gall-fly  family  in  all  its  branches.  This 
group  of  insects  constitutes  a  well-known  branch  of  the 
great  class  of  winged  things.  One  might  conclude,  with 
reason,  that  little  was  left  to  be  desired  in  our  know- 
ledge of  gall-fly  habits  or  of  gall-fly  appearances.  Yet, 
as  the  sequel  will  show,  the  relationships  of  these 


Fig.  21. — Gall  insect  (Cynips  kollari),  (i)  natural  size  and  (2)  enlarged. 

estimable  insects  are  getting  decidedly  "  mixed,"  and 
the  increase  of  knowledge  in  this  case  is  becoming,  as 
it  too  often  does,  an  increase  of  sorrow  to  the  other- 
wise contented  mind  of  the  natural  historian. 

The  newer  story  of  the  gall-flies  begins  with  the 
observation  that  down  in  the  roots  of  the  oak-tree,  and 
in  those  parts  of  the  roots  which  are  but  sparsely 
covered  with  earth,  there  reside  gall-insects  of  peculiar 
kind.  They  come  forth  from  their  ground-galls  as 
wingless  forms,  and  they  are  all  mother-insects.  It  is 
curious  also  to  observe  that  they  cannot  reproduce  the 


So  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

galls  from  which  they  spring :  so  that,  at  first  sight, 
an  element  of  mystery  clearly  attaches  to  these  wing- 
less females. 

From  another  part  of  the  tree,  in  spring,  issue  forth 
the  ordinary  gall-flies.  They  arise  from  the  galls 
borne  on  the  ends  of  the  branches,  and  these  latter 
insects  are  winged,  and  exhibit  a  due  proportion  of 
both  sexes.  To  the  wingless  mothers  of  the  roots 
the  name  of  Biorhizas  has  been  given ;  while  the 
winged  males  and  females  are  placed  in  the  group 
known  by  the  term  Teras.  That  the  two  kinds  of 
insects  are  of  different  species  would  appear  to  be 
a  very  plain  and  reasonable  inference.  Habit  and 
appearance  are  surely  much  more  clearly  defined  and 
separated  here  than  in  the  case  of  our  crows.  This 
much  goes  without  saying.  But  all  has  not  yet  been 
told  about  the  two  kinds  of  gall-flies. 

From  the  roots,  then,  come  the  Biorhizas.  They 
climb  up  the  tree  in  a  slow  and  deliberate  fashion,  as 
becomes  insects  which  have  no  means  of  flight.  Then 
they  pass  to  the  branches  of  the  tree,  and  climb  out 
to  the  very  ends  thereof.  Next  they  begin  to  lay  eggs 
(which,  by  the  way,  are  not  fertilised,  of  course)  in 
the  branches,  and  each  egg  is  developed  inside  a  gall. 
Out  of  these  Biorhiza-eggs,  strange  to  relate,  come  the 
winged  Teras  insects,  so  that  first  of  all  we  see  appa- 
rently one  species  of  animal  giving  origin  to  another 
and  entirely  distinct  species.  The  story  then  proceeds 
to  show  that  the  Teras  insects  in  their  turn  (winged 
males  and  females  as  they  are)  produce  fertilised  eggs, 
which  the  mother  Teras  deposits  in  the  roots  of  the 
tree. 

From  these  root-galls,  as  we  have  seen,  the  wing- 
less Biorhizas  are  duly  developed  ;  so  that  we  find  in 


SOME  MIXED  RELATIONSHIPS. 


81 


this  case  a  kind  of  mutual  and  alternating  exchange  of 
parentage.  The  Biorhiza  gives  origin  to  the  Teras, 
and  the  latter,  in  its  turn,  develops  the  Biorhiza.  To 
use  a  very  old  simile,  the  offspring  never  resemble 
their  parents,  but  their  grand- 
parents. It  is  a  simple 
truism,  then,  to  say  that, 
somehow  or  other,  the  gall- 
fly relationship  have  become 
of  a  character  certainly 
"  mixed  "  in  their  type. 

One  explanation,  at  least, 
of  this  curious  interchange  of 
personalities — not  unknown, 
by  the  way,  in  other  insects 
and  in  other  groups  of  ani- 
mals— is  perhaps  more  easily 
found  than  might  at  first 
sight  be  supposed.  The  his- 
tory of  our  gall-flies  is  one 
in  which  apparently  a  youth- 
ful form  of  a  species  has 
acquired  a  wonderful  power 
of  producing  young.  We 
have  to  wait  for  the  adult 
stage  of  things,  as  a  rule, 
before  the  animal  illustrates 
the  power  of  like  begetting 
like.  Now  and  then,  how- 
ever, we  do  find  that  the 
young  form  has  acquired  a 
power  of  producing  eggs,  and 
of  giving  origin  to  new  beings,  as  if  it  had  attained 
its  mature  state. 


Fig.  22. — Galls  on  oak-leaf: 
: spangles"  and  "button  galls." 


82  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Given  this  power,  then,  we  may  see  in  the  Biorhiza 
an  illustration  of  a  youthful  form  which  has  acquired 
an  egg-laying  habit.  Its  wingless  state  shows  it  to  be 
less  perfect  than  its  winged  neighbours.  But,  as  the 
old  strain  strikes  true,  so  out  of  the  root-galls  come 
forth  the  typical  and  perfect  insects,  whose  eggs  in 
turn  stop  short  of  their  full  development,  as  it  were, 
and  give  origin  to  the  imperfect  Biorhiza  individuals. 

All  the  same,  if  we  did  not  know  this  curious  piece 
of  history,  we  might  not  have  doubted  that  we  were 
dealing  with  two  distinct  species  of  gall-flies.  The 
lesson  we  learn  is,  that  it  is  scarcely  safe  to  assert, 
and  never  safe  to  dogmatise,  about  the  exact  relation- 
ships of  living  beings,  because  now  and  then  they  show 
a  tendency  to  become  decidedly  "  mixed." 


XV. 

H  IRemarfeable  HMstor£. 

THE  story  of  the  gall-flies  related  in  our  last  article, 
reminds  one  of  another  very  curious  piece  of  insect 
history  which  is  well  worth  the  telling,  if  only  by  way 
of  illustrating  the  remarkable  complexity  of  habits  into 
which  animals  are  now  and  then  wont  to  fall.  The 
subject  of  this  history  is  a  small  beetle  known  under 
the  name  of  Sitaris,  and  to  M.  Fabre,  an  ingenious 
and  painstaking  entomologist,  we  are  indebted  for  the 
details  of  its  life-phases.  The  Sitaris  itself  is  in  no- 
wise a  remarkable  animal.  It  is  a  beetle  of  small  size, 
which  ranks  among  its  near  neighbours  the  blister- 
beetles  and  other  familiar  forms.  To  understand  the 
story  of  this  erratic  insect  we  must  begin  by  regard- 
ing the  ways  and  works  of  another  and  different  insect, 
a  species  of  bee  (Anthophora). 

In  its  mode  of  life  this  bee  is  peculiar  enough. 
Away  in  Provence,  M.  Fabre  tells  us,  there  exists  a 
hard  sandstone  whose  strata  are  interspersed  with 
softer  layers  :  and  within  these  softer  layers  the  bee 
burrows,  as  a  kind  of  insect  quarryman.  Its  nests 
are  found  in  the  shape  of  these  subterranean  galleries, 
each  gallery  or  passage  leading  to  a  cell  intended  for 
the  reception  of  the  bee's  egg.  Now,  in  the  autumn 
season,  the  Sitaris  bee-tie  proceeds  to  the  domicile  of 


84  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

the  bee.  The  latter  has  filled  its  stone  cell  with  honey, 
(on  the  surface  of  which  floats  its  egg),  the  entrance  to 
the  nursery-chamber  being  thereafter  duly  plastered 
up.  At  the  entrance  of  the  bee's  gallery  the  beetle 
lays  its  egg,  and  thus  inaugurates  a  very  singular 
course  of  events.  The  Sitaris  egg  is  hatched  out 
about  the  end  of  August  or  beginning  of  October,  and 
the  young  beetle,  an  active  grub  with  six  legs  of  its 
own,  appears  on  the  scene. 

Expectation  might  be  aroused  that,  with  a  store  of 
honey  close  by,  the  young  beetle  might  begin  its  opera- 
tions by  an  attack  on  the  sealed  nursery-chamber  of 
the  bee.  But  this  expectation  would  be  doomed  to 
disappointment.  All  through  the  winter  the  young 
beetle  lies,  like  Lazarus  at  the  gate  of  Dives,  uncom- 
plaining and  apparently  forlorn.  When,  however, 
April  comes,  the  youthful  beetle  awakens  to  activity  : 
it  searches  about  as  if  looking  for  food  and  lodgment, 
but  nothing  definite  at  first  comes  of  its  movements. 
The  bees,  meanwhile,  have  been  also  hatching  out,  the 
first  cf  this  race  to  appear  being  male  insects. 

But,  as  if  they  had  been  prematurely  born,  these 
bees  lie  listless  and  cold  at  the  mouths  of  their  galleries, 
and  therefore  in  close  proximity  to  the  young  beetles, 
in  whom  they  seem  to  have  thus  discovered  comrades 
in  adversity.  The  time  and  opportunity  of  the  young 
Sitaris  have  now  arrived.  For  it  fastens  upon  the 
young  bee,  and  is  aided  in  its  attachment  by  the  claws 
with  which  its  feet  are  provided.  The  beetle  is,  how- 
ever, playing  a  waiting  game  :  it  is  only  using  the 
young  male  bee  as  a  stepping-stone  to  a  more  suitable 
position.  The  female  bees  next  hatch  out,  and  with 
their  advent  a  new  epoch  begins  for  the  beetle. 

The  female  bees  emerge  from  the  nest  and  commence 


A  REMARKABLE  HISTORY  85 

their  work  of  storing  honey  and  of  preparing  for  the 
development  of  the  next  season's  brood.  To  one  of 
the  mother-bees  the  young  Sitaris  beetle  now  transfers 
its  attentions.  It  is  watching  for  one  event  in  bee 
history — namely,  the  laying  of  the  egg.  When  M. 
Fabre,  puzzled  at  first  to  understand  the  behaviour  of 
the  young  beetle,  and  supposing  that  all  that  it  needed 
or  demanded  was  food  in  the  shape  of  the  young  bee 
or  the  honey,  examined  the  nursery-cells  of  the  bees, 
he  found  no  indication  of  any  attack  from  the  beetle. 
When  he  offered  the  young  beetle  the  larvas  and 
chrysalides,  the  cells  and  the  honey  for  food,  it  refused 
all.  "  Que  voulez-vous  done,  bestioles  maudites  ?  " 
remarked  M.  Fabre  to  the  waiting  beetles.  Then  came 
the  revelation.  The  beetle  was  patiently  watching, 
as  we  have  seen,  for  the  laying  of  the  bee's  eggs. 
When  this  process  has  taken  place,  the  Sitaris  springs 
upon  it. 

The  bee-mother,  poor  insect,  fastens  up  her  cell, 
with  its  egg  and  its  honey,  under  the  idea  that  all  is 
well  with  her  progeny.  But  she  does  not  enjoy  even 
the  small  satisfaction  of  locking  the  stable-door  after 
the  steed  has  been  stolen,  for  she  actually  makes  the 
thief  and  the  robber  secure  and  comfortable  beside  her 
innocent  offspring.  The  young  beetle  sits  on  the  egg 
floating  amid  the  honey  as  upon  a  raft.  It  is,  however, 
a  raft  which  is  destined  to  serve  as  food  for  its  bearer. 
The  beetle  begins  to  devour  the  egg.  The  honey- 
store  is,  doubtless,  food,  and  good  food  to  boot ;  but 
what  is  enough  for  one  is  not  sufficient  for  two  :  so 
the  Sitaris  devours  the  rightful  heir  to  the  honey- 
store,  and  in  about  eight  days'  time  the  bee's  egg 
has  vanished.  On  the  empty  shell  of  the  egg,  as  if 
itself  representing  a  kind  of  hollow  mockery,  sits  the 


86  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

beetle ;  and  here  it  exhibits  an  important  phase  in 
the  changes  of  form  through  which  its  development 
is  carried  out.  The  honey-store  now  begins  to  be 
uti-lised  by  this  insect- thief.  The  beetle  becomes,  in 
virtue  of  its  feeding,  a  fleshy,  grub-like  creature,  which 
floats  helplessly  on  the  honey.  Its  mouth  is  buried 
in  the  sweet  store,  and  the  beetle,  as  M.  Fabre  remarks, 
seems  to  exist  at  the  very  verge  of  suffocation, 

Bit  by  bit  the  honey  is  consumed.  It  is  the  nutri- 
ment out  of  which  the  young  beetle  is  forming  and 
developing  its  future  adult  organisation.  A  few  more 
changes  of  form  occur,  and  a  few  moults  evince  the 
rapidity  of  its  growth.  Finally,  in  the  month  of 
August,  comes  forth  the  perfect  Sitaris  beetle,  which, 
laying  its  eggs  at  the  doors  of  the  bees  in  the  suc- 
ceeding autumn,  will  cause  its  progeny  to  repeat  the 
eventful  history  through  which  itself  attained  the 
fulness  of  life. 

That  these  foregoing  events  constitute  a  very 
remarkable  history  is,  I  think,  a  fair  description  of 
their  nature  and  purport.  In  its  way,  the  record  of 
the  Sitaris  development  is  more  wonderful,  one  might 
hold,  than  the  habits  of  the  ants  in  respect  of  their 
entertaining  stranger-insects,  for  example.  Thus  we 
find  certain  ants  keeping  the  eggs  of  the  aphides  or 
plant-lice,  so  common  on  all  plants,  during  the  winter 
in  their  nests ;  the  ants,  as  Sir  John  Lubbock  tells 
us,  treating  (t  these  eggs  as  if  they  were  their  own, 
guarding  and  tending  them  with  the  utmost  care." 

In  the  case  of  our  beetle,  we  see  a  far  more  complex 
habit  wrought  out  to  become  part  and  parcel  of  the 
animal's  development.  What,  at  first,  must  have 
been  a  chance  discovery — that  of  the  honey-store  of 
the  bee — must  have  been  subsequently  complicated 


A  REMARKABLE  HISTORY.  87 

by  the  eating  of  the  bee's  egg,  and  by  the  passage  of 
the  beetle  from  the  male  to  the  female  bee.  There 
is  an  aspect  of  "  biding  its  time  "  and  of  deliberate 
intent  about  the  whole  proceeding  which  teaches  us 
clearly  how  a  chance  habit  grows  into  an  all-important 
phase  of  life. 

In  respect  of  habit,  however,  it  is  the  proverbial 
first  step  which  is  the  only  difficult  one.  Once  inured 
to  a  certain  way  of  life,  and  once  appreciating  that 
this  way  is  a  safe  and  easy  one,  the  animal  or  plant 
soon  adjusts  its  existence  to  the  new  surroundings. 
This  is  the  reward  of  changing  one's  quarters  with 
success,  that  you  come  into  a  more  comfortable  way 
of  livelihood.  The  Sitaris  beetle  evidently  mastered 
this  art  of  change.  Its  history  teaches  us  that  beneath 
our  footsteps,  and  all  unknown  to  most  of  us,  there 
are  thus  ways  and  works  often  equalling,  if  not 
exceeding,  in  the  accuracy  with  which  means  are 
adjusted  to  ends,  even  the  most  clever  artifices  of 
"  the  paragon  of  animals  "  himself. 
7 


XVI. 

H  EHsplas  of 

WE  are  upon  the  verge  of  the  "  merry  month,"  and 
the  April  weather  has  stimulated  to  the  full  all  the 
promises  of  May.  Everything  living  is  awaking  to  the 
full  after  the  winter  somnolence,  and  even  the  ladies' 
Easter  bonnets  and  costumes  indicate  that  human 
nature  somehow  or  other  sympathises  with  the  general 
delight  in  the  prospect  of  a  near  summer-time,  and  a 
return  to  the  genial  warmth  of  the  middle  of  the  year. 

There  is  not  a  bud  or  blossom  which  is  not  break- 
ing forth  into  its  silent  song  of  gladness,  none  the  less 
real  because  it  is  evinced  to  the  eye  rather  than  to 
the  ear.  "  The  birds  on  every  spray  "  sing  gaily  of 
the  rosy  time  of  year,  and  thoughts  of  holidays  and 
lazy  days  begin  to  animate  the  breast  of  the  lord  of 
creation  himself.  It  is  a  poor  heart,  proverbially, 
which  never  rejoices,  but  I  opine  it  must  be  a  very 
sodden  nature  which  does  not  feel  that  something 
delightful  and  pleasing  has  entered  into  life  when 
the  days  begin  to  lengthen,  and  the  warmth  of  May 
assumes  a  deeper  and  deeper  glow. 

We  are  greatly  creatures  of  our  environment— 
every -living  thing  owes  much  to  its  surroundings— 
and  the  moods  and  tenses  of  the  mind  assuredly 
become  attuned  to  a  sympathy  with  the  course  of  that 


A  DISPLAY  OF  ENERGY.  89 

nature  which  encompasses  us,  and  of  which,  in  truth, 
we  ourselves  are  part.  If,  as  Wordsworth  puts  it, 
every  flower  enjoys  the  air  it  breathes,  so  much  the 
more  must  humanity,  in  a  reasonable  state  of  mind, 
be  depressed  by  dull  days  and  gladdened  by  the  days 
that  are  bright  and  sunny.  The  seasons  are  too  closely 
a  reflex  of  our  life  to  escape  having  an  influence  over 
us  :  hence,  on  the  verge  of  May,  a  hundred  voices  are 
crying  to  us  from  the  woods  and  fields,  from  the  hills 
and  valleys,  from  the  cliffs  and  the  sea,  and  bidding 
us  rejoice  and  be  glad  in  the  summer  revival  of  our 
land.  We  may  well  re-echo  the  voice  of  nature,  and 
to  those  of  us  who  are  downcast  and  sorrowful  repeat 
the  message  of  summer-time,  "And  again  I  say  to 
you,  Rejoice  ! " 

There  is  dead  silence  in  the  wood  through  which  I 
am  strolling  this  warm  afternoon.  A  fortnight  since, 
the  buds  were  just  coming  to  maturity.  Now,  the  young 
leaves  are  out,  and  the  sunlight  is  broken  into  varied 
pathways  by  the  first  of  summer's  harbingers  in  the 
way  of  the  green  clothing  of  the  twigs  and  branches. 
I  wonder  if  the  thought  ever  occurs  to  folk  unac- 
customed to  think  of  the  abstract  things  of  science, 
that  an  incalculable  amount  of  energy  is  expended  in  the 
plenishing  of  the  plant-world  for  its  summer  dress. 
To  certain  minds  the  words  "  force  "  and  "  energy  " 
are  meaningless  terms ;  and  I  sympathise  with  the 
mind  which,  accustomed  to  the  practical  details  of 
life,  and  to  the  realities  of  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence,  refuses  or  is  unable  to  assimilate  the  abstrac- 
tions or  transcendentalisms  in  which  the  scientific 
mind  delights.' 

But  most  ideas  in  science  are  easily  mastered,  if 
one  can  but  think  in  terms  of  things  rather  than 


90  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

of  names.  Now,  this  word  "  force "  and  the  term 
"  energy  "  are  legitimate  and  useful  words  enough  in 
science ;  and  I  question  whether  we  can  advance  any 
distance  at  all  in  "  the  primrose  way  "  of  intellectual 
culture  without  knowing  something  about  them.  By 
"  energy  "  we  mean  the  "  power  of  doing  work  ;  "  and 
"  force  "  is  simply  the  equivalent  of  energy. 

If  I  might  put  it  practically,  "  force  "  is  energy  in 
action.  You  possess  in  your  biceps  muscle  a  store  of 
energy,  derived,  of  course,  from  your  food.  You  buy 
so  much  energy  when  you  pay  the  bill  for  your  ton 
of  coals ;  and  you  also  acquire  energy  in  the  shape 
of  the  mutton-chop  you  anticipate  having  for  lunch. 
When  you  raise  your  forearm  by  means  of  your 
biceps  you  liberate  the  stored-up  energy  of  the 
muscle,  and  illustrate  muscular  force  of  power.  When 
you  burn  your  coal  in  the  grate,  the  heat  you  obtain 
(the  chief  part  of  it,  however,  goes  up  the  chimney) 
is  liberated  energy  again,  just  as  the  motion  of  the 
steam-engine,  which  you  might  feed  with  your  coals, 
is  a  part-result  of  the  conversion  of  the  locked-up 
energy  of  the  Carboniferous  plants  into  force.  When 
you  go  cycling  between  lunch  and  dinner,  you  may 
assume  that  the  energy  which  the  grass-eating  sheep 
stored  up  in  the  mutton-chop  is  being  liberated  in 
the  force  with  which  you  propel  yourself  along  the 
highway.  I  might  add  that,  in  the  shape  of  the 
carbonic-acid  gas  and  other  waste  matters  you  give 
out  with  each  breath,  you  are  giving  back  to  the  grass 
somewhat  of  the  material  it  (through  the  sheep)  gave 
to  you.  This  is  an  illustration  of  the  revenons  a  nos 
montons  idea,  which  is  both  apt  and  forcible,  because 
it  is  so  true. 

In  the  wood  to-day,  under  the  influence  of  the  sun- 


A  DISPLAY  OF  ENERGY.  91 

light,  the  plant-world  is  busy  storing  up  "energy" 
for  the  future  wants  and  possibilities  of  its  life. 
Think  of  what  this  bright-  sunlit  day  means  to  every 
leaf,  every  blade  of  grass,  and  every  other  green  thing 
around  you.  Under  the  influence  of  the  light,  the 
living  cells  of  the  leaves,  aided  by  the  screen  of  green 
colouring  matter  each  cell  possesses,  are  absorbing  the 
carbonic-acid  gas  which  the  atmosphere  is  offering 
them.  They  are  decomposing  this  gas  into  the  carbon 
and  the  oxygen  whereof  it  is  composed,  and  are  stor- 
ing up,  or,  at  least,  retaining,  the  carbon  as  part  of 
their  food,  while  the  oxygen  is  being  set  free  into 
the  air. 

The  carbon  will  go  to  aid  in  forming  the  starches 
and  sugars  and  other  products  of  plant-life,  and  will 
thus  help  to  build  up  the  living  fabric  of  the  plant. 
Along  with  the  water  and  minerals  absorbed  by  the 
root,  and  a  trifle  of  ammonia  which  comes  chiefly  from 
the  soil,  the  carbonic-acid  gas  will  then  build  up  the 
plant.  All  this  wealth  of  leaf  and  wood,  of  budding 
flower  and  unrolling  frond  around  us,  only  represents 
so  much  non-living  matter  (or  food)  elaborated  and 
transmuted  by  the  cells  of  the  plants  into  vegetable 
and  living  tissue.  And  all  the  beauty  of  the  summer- 
flowering,  and  the  richer  glory  of  the  later  harvest- 
time,  which  by  and  by  will  make  glad  the  fields  that  to- 
day are  only  showing  a  faint  greenness,  will  similarly 
arise  out  of  the  transformation  of  the  crude  matters  of 
earth  and  air  into  the  forms  and  tissues  of  our  plants. 

Now,  do  you  suppose  all  this  building  of  leaf  and 
stem,  this  fashioning  of  bud  and  flower,  is  accom- 
plished without  a  tremendous  expenditure  of  that 
energy  whereof  we  have  already  discoursed  ?  You 
can  really  get  no  result  in  the  way  of  work  done  in 


92  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

this  world  without  paying  for  it,  and  there  is  no  credit 
system  in  the  transactions  which  Dame  Nature  arranges 
with  the  children  of  life. 

Just  as  you  and  I  had  to  purchase  the  energy 
whereby  we  walked  to  the  wood  in  the  shape  of  food 
.and  drink,  so  every  plant  has  to  buy  the  power  ot 
doing  its  work  (in  the  way  of  flowering  and  fruiting) 
in  the  shape  of  its  water,  carbonic  gas,  and  other  items 
of  its  diet.  The  plant  is  to  many  minds  such  an  un- 
obtrusive organism  that  what  is  certain  to  attract  us 
in  the  case  of  the  animal,  is  apt  to  escape  us  when  we 
casually  contemplate  the  world  of  trees  and  flowers. 

Yet  that  all  life  is  work  becomes  clear,  if  we  can 
only  realise  the  plainest  of  scientific  truths  ;  and  in  the 
wood  to-day  there  is  being  both  expended  and  stored 
up  an  amount  of  energy  such  as  becomes  practically 
unmeasurable  by  ordinary  modes  of  thinking.  There 
is  not  a  plant  around  us  within  whose  microscopic 
cells  the  ceaseless  rush  of  living  protoplasm  currents 
is  not  proceeding.  Every  cell  is  a  chemical  laboratory 
in  miniature,  wherein  wondrously  complex  operations 
are  being  carried  out.  There  is  complete  silence 
around  us,  it  is  true.  The  very  birds  are  enjoying 
their  noontide  siesta,  and  save  for  the  chirp  of  the 
chaffinch,  or  the  lazy  croak  of  the  crows  in  the  rookery 
beyond  us,  not  a  sound  disturbs  the  calmness  of  the 
day. 

Think  well  of  it,  however,  and  learn  that  if  (to  use 
the  expression  of  a  master  in  science)  our  ears  could 
be  strengthened  in  their  powers  of  hearing  as  our  eyes 
can  be  aided  by  the  microscope,  and  if  we  could  hear 
more  acutely  than  we  do,  we  should  assuredly  be 
stunned  by  the  roar  of  the  vitality  of  the  wood,  as  we 
are  deafened  by  the  noise  of  the  traffic  in  the  streets 


A  DISPLAY  OF  ENERGY.  93 

of  the  great  city  miles  away.  Some  day  our  hearing 
powers  may  thus  be  increased.  Till  then  you  must 
accept  what  science  teaches  with  the  simple  faith  of 
the  child.  As  you  go  on  your  way  through  this  fair 
world,  pause  to  think  sometimes  of  the  inner  life  that 
environs  you  everywhere,  and  learn  how  much  he  loses 
who  remains  ignorant  of  everything  save  the  affairs 
of  men. 


XVII. 

Some  BMant 


WITH  the  ordinary  forms  of  plants  and  flowers  every- 
body, of  course,  is  very  familiar;  but  of  the  great  king- 
dom of  lower  plant-life  few  persons,  save  botanists, 
know  anything  at  all.  The  ferns  we  all  recognise,  and, 
what  is  more,  delight  in  them,  but  even  about  the 
life-history  of  a  fern  there  exists  a  very  widespread 
ignorance.  Below  the  ferns,  which  are  aristocrats 
amid  the  lower  groups  of  plants,  come  the  mosses, 
fungi,  and  a  whole  host  of  still  more  lowly  organised 
plants,  beginning  with  the  seaweeds  and  the  Conferva 
(which  form  the  green  scum  on  ponds),  and  ending 
with  those  microscopic  free-swimming  plants  that  are 
akin  to  the  "  germs  "  which  people  the  earth,  the  water, 
and  the  sky. 

At  first  sight,  the  Fungi,  it  must  be  confessed,  do 
not  present  apparently  any  very  attractive  features  for 
popular  study  ;  but  the  same  opinion  may  be  expressed 
of,  say,  an  egg;  and  I  know  nothing  more  wonderful 
in  the  whole  range  of  scientific  research  which  equals 
in  interest  the  story  of  an  egg's  becoming,  and  of 
the  development  of  the  germ  and  the  few  teaspoonfuls 
of  yolk  and  white  to  form  the  complex  living  bird. 

Toadstools  and  mushrooms  are  the  familiar  repre- 
sentatives of  the  fungi  ;  but  the  order  is  a  very  large 


SOME  PLANT  GROUNDLINGS.  95 

one  indeed,  and  includes  a  vast  number  of  species, 
ranging  from  plants  of  very  respectable  size  to  those 
of  merely  microscopic  dimensions.  The  whole  group 
of  those  organisms,  which  cause  the  diseases  of  plants 
known  as  smut,  rust,  mildew,  blight,  and  the  like,  is 
included  under  the  name  of  "  fungi ;  "  so  that  to  the 
gardener  and  the  farmer,  the  study  of  these  ground- 
lings of  the  vegetable  kingdom  can  be  shown  to  be 
fraught  with  very  practical  interest  in  view  of  the 
cure,  or,  what  is  better  still,  the  prevention  of  plant 
ailments. 

To  begin  with,  we  may  be  clear  about  one  point 
regarding  our  mushrooms,  toadstools,  smuts,  mildews, 
and  the  like — namely,  that  they  are  all  of  much 
simpler  structure  than  ordinary  flowering  plants. 
Our  buttercup  or  daisy  is  a  complex  being.  It  has 
its  parts  specialised  to  form  organs  of  distinct  nature 
— such  as  root,  stem,  leaves,  and  flowers.  Again, 
when  we  take  it  to  pieces  under  the  microscope,  we 
see  that  its  tissues  or  layers  are  made  up  of  a  whole 
variety  of  different  elements — cells  and  fibres. 

Not  so  is  it  with  our  fungi.  These,  as  a  rule, 
have  no  such  development  of  parts  into  roots,  leaves, 
and  the  like,  and  all  their  tissues  are  built  up  of  cells 
only.  No  fibres  exist  in  them.  They  are  soft-bodied 
plants,  such  as  we  know  the  mushroom  to  be.  Yet 
this  is  not  all,  as  regards  our  fungi.  Taking  them 
in  their  simplest  phases,  we  find  the  essential  part  of 
each  fungus  to  exist  as  threadlike  branching  filaments, 
which  constitute  the  so-called  mycelium.  This  is,  in 
truth,  the  fungus  proper,  and  most  of  the  duties  of 
life  pertaining  to  nutrition,  and  so  forth,  are  dis- 
charged by  these  creeping  threads. 

These   latter,    again,    are   white   in    colour.     They 


96  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

possess  no  green  substance,  and  be  it  noted  that  the 
presence  or  absence  of  green  makes  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  to  a  plant.  For  when  it  does  possess 
green  matter,  it  can  feed  upon  the  materials  it  derives 
from  earth  and  air — the  water,  carbonic-acid  gas, 
ammonia,  and  minerals,  which  form  the  food  of  green 
plants  at  large.  When,  on  the  contrary,  a  plant  has 
no  green  hue,  it  demands  ready-made  food  in  the 
shape  of  living  matter.  So  that  our  fungi  are  daintier 
feeders  in  a  way  than  their  higher  green  neigh- 
bours. They  subsist  upon  matter  once  living  but 
now  dead  and  decaying,  while  they  sometimes  feed 
upon  living  matter  in  its  vital  condition.  Roughly, 
we  might  divide  our  fungi  into  those  which  feed  on 
decomposing  organic  matter  (e.g.,  our  mushrooms)  and 
those  which  exist  on  actually  living  bodies.  These 
last  are  as  much  parasites  as  are  the  animals  which 
lodge  (and  often  board  also)  on  other  animals. 

The  manner  in  which  the  fungi  reproduce  their  like 
is  also  very  curious  and  interesting.  The  ordinary 
green  plant,  as  we  know,  produces  seeds.  These, 
when  planted  in  the  ground,  give  origin  each  to  a 
new  plant.  Development  is,  therefore,  direct,  as  we 
may  term  it,  in  the  green  plants  we  see  around  us. 
But  the  fungi  (and,  for  that  matter  of  it,  the  ferns 
also)  do  not  produce  seeds.  They  develop  minute 
living  particles,  known  to  botanists  as  "  spores." 
When  we  study  the  spores  in  the  light  of  their 
growth,  we  at  once  note  how  different  lower  plant- 
life  is  when  compared  with  the  higher  forms  of  the 
vegetable  kingdom.  A  common  fern  bears  on  the 
back  of  its  fronds  (not  "leaves,"  please)  certain  brown 
bodies.  Each  of  these  brown  specks  is  a  collection 
of  little  cases  called  spore-cases.  In  shape,  in  ordi- 


SOME  PLANT  GROUNDLINGS. 


97 


nary  ferns,  a  spore-case  is  like  a  fireman's  helmet. 
The  ridge  or  crest  of  the  helmet  in  the  spore-case  is  a 
ring  which,  by  its  contraction,  splits  open  the  case,  and 
allows  the  little  spores  to  escape  and  to  fall  into  the  soil. 

Now,  were  a  spore  a  seed,  each  would  grow  up 
directly  into  a  fern.  But  instead  of  thus 
ending  the  matter,  we  find  each  spore  to 
give  origin  to  a  leaf-like  body,  called  the 
prothallus.  This  roots  itself,  and  then 
produces  in  turn  certain  curious  organs 
not  unlike  the  stamens  and  pistils  of 
higher  plants.  By  the  aid  of  these  organs 
of  the  prothallus,  the  young  fern-body  is 
actually  produced.  It  grows  from  the 
green  leaf  that  arose  from  the  spore,  and 
when  it  has  advanced  in  life,  coiling  up 
its  first  frond  like  the  top  of  the  bishop's 
crozier,  the  prothallus  disappears  by 
withering  away,  or  by  becoming  absorbed 
in  the  young  fern  itself.  Development 
in  the  fern  is  therefore  from  the  fern  to 
the  spore,  then  to  the  prothallus,  and  from 
the  prothallus  to  the  fern  again. 

Now,    in    our    fungi,   much    the    same 
course  of  events  has  to  be  chronicled  in 
respect  of  their  development.    The  fungus 
produces  "  spores,"  like  the  fern,  and  not 
seeds.      These  spores  grow  upon  special 
filaments  which  shoot  up  from  the  surface 
of  the  threads  that  we  have  seen  to  form 
the  essential  part  of  every  fungus.      In      Fein-frond: 
some  fungi  the  threads  are  separate  and  ^"*»«  «'»«*«>. 
distinct,  and  then  the  spores  are  set  free  into  the  air, 
and  help  to  form  part  and  parcel  of  the  great  army  of 


98  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

germs  which  the  air-oceari  bears.  In  this  way,  dis- 
seminated abroad,  the  spores  find  a  resting-place  here 
and  there  :  now  in  the  jam-pots  of  the  housewife,  now 
on  the  fine  old  crusted  cheese,  and  now  on  a  pair  of 
boots  which  have  been  laid  away  in  a  damp  condition. 

But  in  ether  cases,  our  fungi  develop  their  spores 
in  closed  cases,  whence  they  ultimately  escape.  The 
fungus-spore  settles  down,  as  we  have  seen,  develops 
its  threads,  and  then,  latterly,  we  get  back  to  the 
spore-bearing  stage  again.  Some  fungi  may  give 
origin  each  to  several  kinds  of  spores,  and  out  of  each 
kind  a  special  form  of  the  fungus  develops.  The  exact 
personality  of  the  fungus  in  such  a  case  may  be  a 
•matter  very  difficult  of  determination  ;  and  it  would 
•almost  appear  as  though  several  distinct  species  had 
become  mysteriously  mixed  up  in  their  development. 

In  lower  plant-life,  however,  we  are  prepared  for 
this  assumption  of  several  forms  and  shapes,  and 
finally  in  their  habits  we  see  illustrated  the  same 
tendency  towards  particular  modes  of  life.  Fungi 
nearly  related  are  often  found  to  attack  very  different 
plants.  There  is  a  mildew  which  attacks  the  lettuce, 
for  example,  and  it  is  a  near  relative  of  another  which 
infests  the  onion.  Yet  each  fungus  seems  compelled 
to  keep  to  its  own  plant,  lettuce  or  onion  :  the  one 
cannot  trench  on  the  other's  ground.  This  says  some- 
thing for  complicated  habits  even  among  the  tenants 
of  the  slums  of  the  vegetable  world. 


XVIII. 

Some  Curious  Mass  of  plants, 

EVERY  one  is  familiar  with  the  legend  of  the  sunflower 
— how  it  turns  its  yellow  face  towards  the  orb  of  day. 
Perchance  it  was  the  look  of  the  flower  which  suggested 
the  story,  but,  curious  as  the  tale  may  be,  the  presumed 
habit  of  the  plant  finds  many  a  parallel  in  the  vegetable 
world.  There  is  a  scientific  term — "  heliotropism," 
which  means  turning  towards  the  sun  (or  light),  and 
this  term  is,  nowadays,  used  by  botanists  to  indicate 
a  very  real  and  very  interesting  habit  of  plant-life. 

Our  sunflower  rotates  with  the  sun,  it  is  true,  and 
in  so  doing  obeys  what  is  really  a  primary  law  of  vege- 
table existence.  For  ordinary  observation  will  show 
us  that  most  plants  bend  to  the  light  if  they  are  placed, 
say,  in  a  room  whereof  one  aspect  is  dark  and  the 
other  open  and  bright.  At  the  foundation  of  a  plant's 
relations  to  light,  to  heat,  or  to  any  of  the  other 
conditions  of  its  life,  there  lies  of  course  the  fact  that 
it  contains  living  matter,  or  protoplasm.  We  are  given 
too  much  to  regard  plants  as  purely  vegetative  and 
half-living  things,  so  to  speak.  We  do  not  remember, 
until  science  forcibly  reminds  us  of  the  fact,  that  the 
plants  form  one  of  the  two  great  divisions  of  the  living 
world,  and  that  they  rank  equally  with  animals  in  at 
least  possessing  the  matter  of  life.  This  habit  of 


ioo  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

turning  to  the  light,  then,  we  may  regard  as  truly  a 
part  of  the  plant's  own  nature,  as  is  that  of  taking  its 
own  and  appropriate  food. 

In  truth,  it  is  light  which,  with  the  plant  as  with 
the  animal,  rules  and  regulates  most  of  the  ways  ot 
life.  Deprived  of  light,  the  whole  constitution  of  the 
living  being  is  altered.  Its  nutrition  fails  it ;  its  frame 
grows  weak ;  its  energies  droop.  There  is  a  much 
closer  analogy  between  the  blanched  leaves  of  a  green 
plant  grown  in  a  cellar,  and  the  pale  face  of  a  child 
bred  in  the  slums,  than  we  might  at  first  sight  be 
inclined  to  suppose. 

There  are  certain  plants,  notably  climbers,  which 
do  not  exhibit  for  the  sun  the  stable  affection  of  most 
other  plants.  Tendrils,  whereby  many  of  these  plants 
climb,  are  not  influenced  by  the  light.  Were  it  so, 
they  would  tend  to  move  away  from  the  support  to 
which  they  cling.  The  wisteria  is  an  excellent  illus- 
tration of  a  plant  which,  itself  a  climber  by  means 
of  twining,  winds  itself  regularly  round  its  support 
without  apparently  regarding  the  light  at  all.  Of  the 
morning  glory  the  same  fact  is  true.  But  we  do  not 
know  all  when  we  make  these  bare  assertions  about 
the  non-sensitiveness  of  tendrils  and  climbers  to  the 
light.  If  we  watch  a  young  climbing  plant  when  it 
has  just  begun  existence,  and  when  it  has  raised  its 
first  leaf- buds  and  stem  above  the  ground,  we  see  that 
it  is  as  sensitive  to  the  light — as  "heliotropic,"  in 
other  words — as  any  other  plant. 

Later  on,  when  the  climbing  habit  develops  and 
appears,  this  sensitiveness  is  lost.  It  has  exchanged 
its  early  and  primitive  tendency — the  universal  habit 
of  turning  to  the  light — for  another  habit  which  better 
suits  its  new  and  acquired  existence.  Climbing,  in 


SOME  CURIOUS  WAYS  OF  PLANTS.  101 

other  words,  is  incompatible  with  the  constant  desire 
to  press  forward  to  the  light.  The  plant  cannot  both 
"  have  its  cake  and  eat  it ;  "  hence,  as  Darwin  showed, 
twiners  and  climbers  must  consider  their  supports, 
and  must  let  the  question  of  light  go  by  the  board. 
From  these  facts,  we  argue  that  the  habit  of  growing 
towards  the  light  is  really  a  universal  habit  of  all 
plants.  It  has  merely  been  superseded,  in  some 
cases,  by  another  and  newer  habit,  tinder  which  cer- 
tain plants  have  contrived  to  flourish.  It  is  like 
parasitism  among  animals.  The  parasites,  once  upon 
a  time,  were  free  and  independent.  Once  betaking 
themselves  to  the  fixed  life,  away  go  their  feet, 
stomachs,  eyes,  and  feelers ;  and  a  new  and  lower 
order  of  affairs  is  thus  inaugurated.  Still,  in  their 
young  states,  we  find  evidences  that  the  parasites 
possessed  all  the  appliances  for  movement  and  for 
independent  life. 

There  is  yet  another  point  in  connection  with  this 
bending  to  the  sun  which  we  must  appreciate.  It  is 
this  :  that  in  all  plants,  which,  as  a  rule,  are  less  active 
than  animals,  the  one  great  means  and  mode  of  alter- 
ing their  states  is  by  the  production  of  curvatures  in 
their  parts.  This  curvature  we  see  when  the  tendril 
or  the  stem  clasps  the  support  in  the  case  of  a  climber. 
We  behold  it  equally  well  when  we  see  a  sensitive 
plant  droop  its  leaves,  or  a  moving  plant  swing  its 
foliage  right  and  left  with  an  almost  continuous  oscil- 
lation. Peering  into  the  tissues  of  plants  with  the 
aid  of  the  microscope,  we  see  the  most  vital  parts  and 
layers  to  be  composed  of  minute  bags  or  sacs,  called 
"cells." 

Of  these  cells  there  is  infinite  variety.  Inside  them, 
are  the  fluids  of  the  plant,  whereof  water  is  the  chief. 


102  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Within  them  also  is  the  living  matter  which  con- 
stitutes the  sum  and  substance  of  the  plant's  activities. 
A  living  plant  cell  is  in  a  state  of  constant  change.  It 
is  perpetually  receiving,  and  as  constantly  giving  off, 
water ;  and  to  the  alteration  of  the  cells  of  a  leaf,  a 
tendril,  a  flower-stalk,  a  stamen,  or  a  leaf-stalk  are 
due  all  the  movements  of  plants.  Now,  in  producing 
these  alterations  of  cells,  and  in  favouring  cell-changes, 
light  plays  a  first  part. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  "  heliotropism  "  of  the  botanist 
comes  to  be  regarded  as  a  powerful  factor  in  inducing 
change  in  the  vegetable  world,  and  in  carrying  out 
the  characteristic  habits  of  each  species.  Left  to 
themselves,  in  darkness,  for  instance,  cells  breed  and 
multiply.  There  is  no  light  to  interfere  with  this 
dead  level  of  cell-duty,  as  it  were.  That  is  why  most 
plants  really  grow  most  rapidly  in  the  night-time,  and 
this  even  though  the  fall  of  the  temperature  is  against 
quick  increase. 

The  effect  of  light  may  be  viewed  as  an  interference 
with  the  process  of  growth  in  the  cells  of  plants.  If 
we  return  to  our  old  friend  the  sunflower,  we  may  be 
able  now  to  explain  why  it  follows  the  sun  in  his  daily 
course.  The  effect  of  the  light,  which  pours  its  rays 
against  one  side  of  the  plant,  in  contradistinction  to 
the  other  side,  is  to  cause  changes  in  the  cells  of  the 
ormer  side.  There  is  set  up  an  alteration  of  vital 
activity  :  growth  recedes,  as  a  power,  into  the  back- 
ground of  things,  and  the  result  is  to  produce  a 
curvature  towards  the  light. 

Thus,  between  light  and  darkness,  our  plants  allow 
their  complex  lives  to  swing.  But  the  instincts  of  the 
light  may  be  paralleled  by  those  of  the  darkness  as 
regards  plants.  The  young  root,  emerging  from  the 


SOME  CURIOUS  WAYS  OF  PLANTS.  103 

seed,  seeks  the  ground  by  an  instinct  as  natural  as  that 
whereby  the  young  stem  seeks  the  light.  There  is 
curvature  seen  here  again  ;  and  there  are  alterations  of 
cells  at  work  in  the  root  as  in  the  leaf  or  flower.  That 
tendency  we  call,  in  botany,  "  seeking  the  earth  "  is  as 
real  a  fact  as  the  instinct  of  seeking  the  light ;  and 
both  we  have  seen  to  be  effected  by  the  mechanical 
alteration  of  the  plant's  microscopic  cells. 

Yet,  beyond  all  this,  we  have  to  deal  with  quantities 
and  qualities  which  are  not  so  easily  to  be  estimated. 
I  have  said  that  the  living  matter  of  the  cells  has  to 
play  its  part  before  we  can  have  any  manifestation  of 
life  at  all.  Beyond  this,  also,  lies  the  mystic  ten- 
dencies we  name — inheritance  and  instinct.  The 
plant  lives  and  conducts  its  affairs  as  did  its  parent 
before  it.  The  offspring  live  on  the  lines  of  their  pro- 
genitors— until  changed  habits  come  to  bring  alteration 
into  the  ways  of  life. 

Hence,  even  when  we  ask  ourselves  why  a  sun- 
flower follows  the  sun,  our  answer  is  at  best  a  tenta- 
tive one.  It  does  so  because  its  cells  are  acted  upon 
by  the  light,  as  were  the  cells  of  its  ancestors.  Beyond 
this,  the  "  why  "  is  all  a  mystery  to  us.  The  "  flower 
in  the  crannied  wall"  still  presents  to  our  waiting 
eyes  the  problem  of  all  the  ages,  and  the  puzzle  which 
the  wisest  and  best  of  men  have  attempted,  but  in 
vain,  to  solve. 


XIX. 

jfertilits  ot  IRature* 

THERE  is  no  feature  in  the  character  of  Dame  Nature 
more  plainly  marked  than  her  liberality  and  profuse- 
ness  where  the  development  of  new  beings  is  con- 
cerned. Witness,  in  proof  of  this  assertion,  the  tons 
upon  tons  of  yellow  pollen  or  fertilising  dust  which 
are  shed  from  the  pine  forests  in  the  early  months  of 
the  year,  to  be  caught  up  by  the  winds  and  to  be 
blown  among  the  cones,  to  inaugurate  therein  the 
changes  which  result  in  the  production  of  seeds.  Much 
of  this  pollen  is  lost  and  squandered.  Travellers  tell 
us  of  this  dust  lying  a  foot  deep  or  more  on  the  bor- 
ders of  the  great  American  lakes.  Driven  out  of  its 
course  by  contrary  winds,  it  has  perished,  useless 
and  forgotten. 

The  liberality  of  Nature,  then,  in  this  matter  of 
pollen  alone,  would  require  to  be  of  very  great  extent. 
Wherever  wind-fertilisation  takes  place,  it  would  seem 
as  though,  in  aiming  at  that  act  through  the  medium 
of  the  air-currents,  Madre  Natura  rained  her  bullets  at 
the  target  from  her  machine-gun  or  Maxim,  in  place 
of  aiming  directly  at  the  bull's  eye  with  a  rifle.  In 
other  words,  she  showers  her  loads  of  pollen  not  in 
the  hope  that  all  will  be  utilised,  but  that  some  particles 
here  and  there  will  fulfil  their  destiny.  Now,  this  is 


THE  FERTILITY  OF  NATURE.  105 

a  serious  and  wasteful  business  at  the  best  Only  a 
person  of  huge  and,  indeed,  illimitable  resources,  like 
Dame  Nature  herself,  could  carry  on  such  a  precarious 
and  thoroughly  spendthrift  policy.  Yet,  it  is  a  policy 
of  fact,  and  every  summer  that  comes  and  every  spring 
that  dawns  upon  us,  testify  to  the  fertility — I  would 
say  the  over-fertility — of  the  powers  and  conditions 
that  rule  the  living  worlds. 

Do  you  remember  those  lines  in  "  In  Memoriam," 
wherein  Tennyson  remarks  of  Nature's  carefulness 
over  the  type,  and  her  carelessness  in  the  matter  of 
the  single  life  ? — 

"  That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 
She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear  " — 

these  lines  are  the  poet's  recognition  of  and  protest 
against  this  terrible  fertility  of  Nature,  which  seems 
to  crush  the  individual  that  it  may  favour  the  race. 
Yet  there  is  something  to  be  said  for  all  this  apparent 
waste  of  means  to  gain  an  end.  The  whole  process 
is  one  of  favouring  the  growth  of  newer  and  higher 
types  of  individual  life,  after  all  is  said  and  done.  It 
is  true  that  the  crowd  seems  to  occlude  the  individual 
interests ;  but  it  is  only  for  a  time. 

Out  of  the  mass  which  is  thus  favoured,  you  en- 
courage your  new  and  better  individuals  to  arise.  That 
is  really  the  meaning  of  Nature's  prodigality.  She 
abhors  the  dead  level,  and  desires  to  encourage  a  de- 
parture into  "  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new,"  and 
this  can  only  be  effected  through  the  increase  of  the 
number  of  individuals  who  are  to  compete  in  the  race 
for  the  better  things  which  stand  above  life's  dead 


io6  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

levels.  So  far,  then,  we  may  discern  a  purpose 
beneath  the  apparent  lavishness  of  numbers ;  and  I 
confess  that,  but  for  some  intellectual  comfort  of  the 
kind  afforded  by  the  thought  of  fertility  favouring 
progress  and  advance,  I,  for  one,  should  be  strongly 
tempted  to  think  that  the  times  were  decidedly  "  out 
of  joint "  as  regards  Madre  Natura  and  her  lavish 
display  of  fertilising  power. 

Think  for  a  moment  of  what  this  productiveness  of 
Nature  means.  How  many  young,  think  you,  does 
an  oyster  produce  in  its  day  and  generation  ?  If  one 
says  a  million  of  eggs,  the  statement,  I  should  hold, 
falls  rather  short  than  otherwise  of  the  reality.  Did 
these  eggs  each  come  to  full  fruition  and  develop  into 
oysters,  what  a  cheapening  of  that  savoury  mollusc 
would  ensue  !  But  of  the  million  eggs,  how  many 
proceed  to  mature  development  ?  Not  one  in  a 
thousand,  probably.  The  delicate  "  spat  "  is  devoured 
by  fishes,  killed  by  muddy  water,  and  otherwise  deci- 
mated by  cold  and  other  agencies.  Only  a  miserable 
remnant  of  the  oyster's  progeny  arrives  at  the  stage 
of  adult  oysterhood.  "  The  rest  is  silence,"  as  Hamlet 
put  it,  in  so  far  as  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
oyster- progeny  are  concerned. 

It  is  the  same  in  many  other  places  and  departments 
of  animal  life.  What  do  you  say  to  the  fertility  of  a 
cod-fish,  a  salmon,  or  a  herring  ?  A  single  cod-fish,  it 
is  calculated,  will  produce  from  8,000,000  to  10,000,000 
eggs  ;  yet  these  swarms  of  eggs  are  liable  to  the  attack 
of  thousands  of  enemies  (report,  sad  to  relate,  says 
among  these  enemies  the  father  cod-fishes  themselves 
must  be  enumerated),  and  only  a  miserable  fraction  of 
cod-eggs,  herring-eggs,  or  salmon-eggs,  therefore,  ever 
reaches  maturity.  Were  it  not  so,  in  a  year  or  two 


THE  FERTILITY  OF  NATURE.  107 

there  would  be  no  room  in  the  seas  and  oceans  for 
the  masses  of  fishes  which  would  result  from  the 
fertility  of  Nature  having  full  swing. 

In  lower  life,  as  well,  the  same  fertility  is  to  be  seen, 
contrasting  markedly  with  the  very  limited  rate  of 
production  witnessed  in  some  animal  species,  whereof 
the  elephant  is  a  good  example.  A  tapeworm,  as  an 
internal  parasite,  may,  and  does  as  a  rule,  consist  of 
several  hundreds  of  joints.  Each  joint  contains  several 
thousands  of  eggs,  and  the  number  of  young  tape- 
worm guests  which  would  seem  to  be  capable  of  being 
launched  on  a  world  of  inoffensive  hosts  at  first  sight 
appears  out  of  all  reasonable  proportion.  Yet,  as 
science  teaches  us,  the  chances  of  a  tapeworm-egg 
ever  reaching  maturity  of  development  must  be  ranked 
by  many  thousands  to  one. 

Our  parasite's  egg  has  to  pass  through  such  a  com- 
plex cycle  of  development,  and  its  chances  of  destruc- 
tion are  so  many  and  varied,  that  we  need  not  wonder 
that  while  tapeworm-eggs  are  many,  the  adult  parasites 
are  so  few.  Or  take  the  case  of  the  plant-lice,  or 
"  green  flies  "  (Aphides),  that  swarm  on  our  plants  in 
summer.  These  insects,  as  the  gardener  knows  to  his 
cost,  are  innumerable.  They  exist  in  myriads,  it  is 
true,  but  even  their  fertility  is  checked  by  cold,  and  by 
the  many  enemies  that  prey  upon  them.  Thus,  although 
the  fertility  of  Nature  is  unbounded  in  one  sense,  it  is 
checked  in  another.  There  is  a  prolific  progeny  as 
a  rule ;  but  it  is  prolific,  first  of  all,  because  this  is 
Nature's  own  way  of  encouraging,  by  sheer  force  of 
numbers,  the  production  of  animals  and  plants,  out 
of  whose  ranks  new  and  better  individuals  will  step 
to  advance  the  race  and  promote  the  change  that 
makes  for  progress. 


lo8  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

There  is  another  thought  about  Nature's  fertility 
which  has  just  been  suggested — namely,  that  we  find 
the  extremes  of  productiveness  in  those  cases  in  which 
there  is  most  danger  of  the  young  not  developing  on- 
wards to  maturity.  The  elephant  is  fairly  safe,  it  is 
urged  ;  the  oyster  and  cod-fish,  in  this  respect,  and  the 
tapeworm,  to  boot,  are  anything  but  sure  and  certain  of 
fulfilling  their  destiny.  This  thought,  however,  may  be 
said  to  go  hand  in  hand  with  that  other  idea  already 
suggested — namely,  that  the  greater  the  increase,  the 
better  are  the  chances  of  advance  and  progress. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  we  can  see  that  the  great  pro- 
ductiveness of  Dame  Nature  is  not  without  its  reason. 
The  fifty  seeds  which  are  lost  are  the  real  measure  of 
the  one  which  comes  to  maturity,  and  which  does  so 
because,  probably,  it  is  stronger  and  better  fitted  to  bear 
the  brunt  of  the  battle  of  life.  Better  a  hundred  years 
of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay,  urges  the  poet. 
May  we  not  parallel  his  saying  by  the  remark  that  it 
is  better  to  have  fewer  units  in  the  field  of  life,  and  to 
find  in  these  units  the  flowers  of  the  flock,  than  to  see 
all  life  sinking  to  the  dead  level  of  the  mass,  and  to 
the  humdrum  existence  of  the  crowd  ? 


XX. 

Dandelion  Down. 

TO-DAY,  as  I  sit  at  an  open  window  which  looks  on  a 
pleasant  meadow  fringed  with  willows,  marking  the 
margin  of  the  river,  a  dandelion  seed  has  been  wafted 
into  the  room  by  the  summer  breeze.  The  dandelion, 
familiar  as  it  may  be  to  everybody,  is  a  flower  which 
has  locked  up  within  its  botanical  history  a  very  con- 
siderable meed  of  curious  philosophy.  I  confess  to 
possessing  for  that  elegant  flower,  which  is  ordinarily 
and  contemptuously  named  a  "  roadside  weed,"  a  high 
measure  of  respect.  Primarily  the  dandelion  is  not  one 
flower  but  many — a  colony  of  strap-shaped  blossoms, 
nestling  cosily  on  the  flattened  top  of  the  hollow  flower- 
stalk.  Pluck  out  one  of  those  blossoms,  and  look  at 
it  narrowly  by  the  aid  or  a  pocket  lens.  There  is  the 
yellow  strap,  toothed  at  the  top,  and  forming  the 
corolla  of  the  flower. 

Probably,  once  upon  a  time,  when  the  dandelion 
blossoms  were  not  packed  so  closely  together  (like 
human  units  themselves)  this  yellow  strap  was  com- 
posed of  distinct  and  separate  petals.  Its  toothed  or 
fringed  margin  would  seem  to  indicate  as  much.  Look- 
ing below  you  see  the  down  or  silky  hairs  which 
represent  the  calyx  of  the  flower,  or  the  green  outer 
part  you  see  so  distinctly  in  the  rose,  in  the  straw- 


I io  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

berry  (where  it  is  double)  or  in  the  primrose.  Here 
the  calyx  is  a  mass  of  flossy  hairs,  and  discharges,  as 
we  shall  see,  a  useful  purpose  in  the  after-glow  of 
dandelion  life.  Below,  the  little  flower  forms  a  tube,  and 
inside  the  tube  are  the  seed-producing  organs.  The 
pistil,  wherein  the  seeds  are  matured,  is  that  delicate 
stalk  you  may  perceive  rising  in  the  middle  of  the  tube. 
It  is  divided  in  two  at  its  tip,  and  the  ends  curl  over. 
On  these  ends  the  pollen,  or  yellow  fertilising  dust  you. 
see  so  distinctly  in  larger  flowers,  will  be  placed,  so 
as  to  ripen  and  fructify  the  ovules  into  seeds. 

Stamens,   too,  for  producing   the  pollen,   the   little 
dandelion    flower   possesses,    all    united   in   a   bunch 
around  the  stalk  of  the  pistil.      So  that 
inside  this  apparently  insignificant  blos- 
som, one  of  the  hundred  or  two  which 
make  up  the  dandelion-head,  you  find 
all  the  parts  of  a  perfect  flower.    Little 
wonder  that  this  race  of  plants  flourishes 
exceedingly  and  multiplies  apace,  when 
24.          you  discover  its  colonial  nature  and  its 

Dandelion  Down. 

compound  constitution. 

After  the  blossom  comes  the  fruit,  and  the  dandelion 
pistils  ripen  in  due  season.  The  yellow  leaves  wither 
away,  because,  having  served  as  flags  and  ensigns 
to  the  insect-hosts,  which  carry  the  pollen  from  one 
flower  to  the  other,  their  mission  is  past  and  over. 
Seed-time  in  dandelion  history  is  well-known.  You 
behold  the  head  of  flowers  converted  into  a  perfect  ball 
of  downy  hairs,  and  the  children  blow  them  off  puff 
by  puff  to  calculate  the  time  of  day,  in  the  exercise  of 
that  popular  folk-lore  whereof  childhood  still  retains 
many  examples. 

What  has  happened,  then,  to  the  dandelion-head  as 


DANDELION  DOWN.  in 

its  seed-time  has  dawned  upon  it  ?  Chiefly  this  :  the 
silky  calyx  has  developed  apace,  and  has  come  to  form 
wings  whereby  the  seeds  are  carried  hither  and  thither 
by  the  winds.  Not  content  with  producing  abundance 
of  seeds,  Madre  Natura  provides  for  their  dispersion 
far  and  wide  over  the  face  of  the  earth.  There  is  a 
wealth  of  wonderment  to  be  obtained  out  of  the  study 
which  begins  with  a  roadside  weed  and  merges  into  the 
great  question  of  the  diffusion  of  plant-life  at  large. 

The  dandelion  seed,  which  the  wind  has  wafted 
through  the  open  window,  speaks  to  us  of  ways  and 
means  of  securing  the  propagation  of  the  flowers  by 
the  cunning  utilisation  of  the  winds — just  as  in  other 
plants  the  waters  may  bear  the  seeds  to  distant  parts, 
or  as  others,  again,  employ  animals  to  carry  their  pro- 
geny and  to  spread  their  kind  broadcast.  Indeed, 
from  all  we  know  about  the  dispersion  of  seeds,  we 
are  forced  to  conclude  that  the  contrivance  and  in- 
genuity of  Nature  are  nowhere  more  typically  repre- 
sented than  in  securing  "  fresh  woods  and  pastures 
new  "  for  the  growth  of  plants. 

Even  in  our  dandelion  there  is  found  a  certain  note- 
worthy feature  which  is  typical  of  many  kindred  devices 
for  ensuring  the  due  perpetuation  of  the  race.  When 
the  flowers  are  being  fertilised  the  head  stands  erect 
and  prominent  among  the  vegetation  of  the  highways. 
Then,  when  the  seeds  are  ripening,  the  stalk  is  lowered, 
and  the  flower  lies  horizontal  or  bent  towards  the 
ground.  This  device  secures  the  efficient  maturing 
of  the  seeds,  and,  when  all  is  ready,  and  the  ripened 
pistils  or  "  fruits"  are  prepared  for  dissemination,  the 
flower-stalk  rises  erect  once  more,  and  each  puff  of 
wind  carries  off  the  seeds,  borne  through  the  air  on 
their  wings.  "  Thistledown,"  in  this  sense,  is  seen  to 


112  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

be  a  structure  with  a  great  purpose  at  its  back.  These 
"  airy  nothings "  of  the  child  represent  some  of  the 
means  whereby  this  earth  has  become  peopled  and 
pastured  with  the  fulness  of  vegetable  growth. 

The  floating  dandelion  seed,  however,  is  but  the 
beginnings  of  thought  in  this  direction,  as  I  have  said. 
When  you  stroll  through  the  garden  or  by  the  way- 
side, note  how  herb-robert,  by  an  ingenious  catapult- 
arrangement,  plays  at  "  pitch  and  toss  "  with  its  seeds 
and  scatters  them  abroad  and  around.  If  you  come 
across  a  squirting  cucumber  anywhere  in  the  south  of 
Europe  beware  of  touching  it,  lest  you  be  greeted  with 
a  veritable  explosion  of  seeds.  Watch  the  ripe  poppy- 
head,  full  of  seeds,  and  note  the  little  doors  which  lie 
just  under  the  lid.  You  may  understand  then,  how, 
when  the  flower-stalk  sways  to  and  fro  with  the  wind, 
the  seeds  are  ejected  and  thrown  out  from  their  parent- 
capsule. 

Of  winged  seeds,  too,  there  are  many  tolerably  heavy 
kinds,  which  are  dispersed  by  means  of  the  wind  act- 
ing on  their  parachutes.  The  sycamore  seed  has  a 
double  wing,  as  also  has  that  of  the  maple,  and  the 
ash  and  fir  are  also  to  be  reckoned  with  in  this  sense 
of  wind-dispersed  plants.  When  you  stop  to  examine 
the  burdock  seeds,  you  will  then  discover  how  the 
animal  is  pressed  into  the  service  of  the  plant,  for  you 
may  note  the  hooked  hairs  with  which  the  seeds  are 
provided  and  wherewith  they  cleave  and  cling  to  the 
hair  and  fur  of  sheep  and  other  unsuspecting  ministers 
of  plant-life. 

Nor  is  the  service  of  the  animal  always  unconscious. 
There  is  a  South  African  plant  whose  seeds  or  fruits 
possess  hooks  of  such  a  nature  that,  when  the  lion  has 
innocently  been  made  a  carrier  and  disperser  of  these 


DANDELION  DOWN.  113 

seeds,  the  king  of  beasts  has  been  done  to  death  by 
the  torture  and  irritation  they  induce.  The  lion  in 
attempting  to  free  his  hair  from  the  seeds,  is  apt  to 
find  them  adhering  to  his  mouth,  and  the  effort  to  get 
rid  of  the  seeds  is  as  often  as  not  a  hopeless  task. 

There  is  no  space  left  wherein  to  ask  you  to  re- 
member the  sticky  seed  of  the  mistletoe — a  rare  pro- 
vision among  our  native  plants — whereby  it  adheres  to 
the  tree  which  is  to  form  its  "host."  It  is  a  curious 
story,  too,  that  of  the  dispersion  of  seeds  by  the  aid 
of  birds.  You  may  read  how  Darwin,  by  the  exercise 
of  his  patient  industry,  seeing  possible  results  where 
a  lesser  mind  would  "  pass  by  on  the  other  side," 
moistened  and  tended  the  clod  of  earth  which  a  friend 
had  removed  from  the  foot  of  a  migrating  bird.  Out 
of  this  clod,  in  time,  dozens  of  plants  were  developed, 
which,  in  the  natural  order  of  things,  would  have  been 
carried  by  the  bird  over  great  tracts  of  land  and  sea. 
Think,  also,  how  volcanic  islands,  rising  from  the  azure 
main  as  primitive  tracts  of  land,  are  peopled  by  the 
winged  seeds  which  fall  on  their  coasts  and  bring 
forth  a  covering  of  vegetation  to  cover  the  primitive 
barrenness  of  the  earth.  But  more  of  all  these  things 
hereafter. 

I  may  not  discourse  at  present  on  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  colour  in  fruits  as  an  aid  to  the  disper- 
sion of  the  seeds  contained  therein.  The  dandelion 
seed  is  enough  for  to-day,  and  opens  the  gateway  of 
thought  wide  enough  for  you  and  me  for  many  days 
to  come. 


XXI. 

Ube  fllMstletoe 

THE  flight  of  Father  Time  brings  round,  in  its  due 
season,  the  days  of  holly,  and  the  "  mistletoe  bough  " 
decks  the  walls,  and  (in  a  Pickwickian  sense),  "more 
convenient "  localities  in  the  homes  of  the  land.  Per- 
chance few  of  us  give  a  thought  to  the  debt  we  owe 
to  the  world  of  plants  at  the  season  of  Yule.  Holly 
and  mistletoe  are  inseparable  from  the  folk-lore  of 
Christmas,  and  the  forces,  tendencies,  habits — call 
them  what  you  will — which  have  evolved  the  green- 
ness of  these  plants,  have  contributed  much  to  the 
grateful  associations  of  the  time. 

When  other  forms  of  vegetation  have  died  off  or 
are  sleeping  out  the  winter's  chill,  the  holly,  with  its 
green  and  red,  and  the  mistletoe  with  it's  equally 
attractive,  if  quieter  and  more  subdued  hues,  remain 
with  us  to  remind  us  of  hopes  and  aspirations  extend- 
ing far  beyond  the  season  of  the  snow. 

I  think  there  is  a  tacit  reflection  cast  from  these 
plants  into  human  life,  bidding  us  be  of  good  cheer, 
advising  us  to  tide  over  the  wintry  side  of  life,  and 
inspiring  us  with  hope  for  the  future.  The  old 
associations  of  mistletoe  and  holly  abide  with  us  as 
part  and  parcel  of  our  social  life,  and  unconsciously 
affect  us  by  their  tale  of  life  and  vitality  when  most 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH.  115 

things  else  are  quiescent  and  still,  and  give  no  sign  of 
life  at  all. 

Away  back  in  the  history  of  the  Gauls,  we  know 
how  the  mistletoe  played  its  part  in  the  mystic  rites  of 
that  race.  On  the  sixth  day  after  the  first  new  moon 
of  the  year,  we  can  see,  in  our  mind's  eye,  the  two 
white  oxen  placed  for  the  first  time  under  the  yoke, 
and  the  High  Druid,  in  his  white  garments,  golden 
sickle  in  hand.  We  can  see  him  cut  the  mistletoe 
from  the  oak,  and  behold  the  plant  reverently  received 
in  a  white  cloth  as  it  falls.  Then  comes  the  sacrifice 
of  the  oxen,  and  the  distribution  of  the  sacred  leaves 
to  the  people.  All  these  things,  ideas,  and  ceremonies 
have  long  passed  away,  and  have  become  merged  in 
that  "  illimitable  azure  of  the  past "  which  receives  so 
many  of  the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  human  race ;  but 
mistletoe  remains  with  us — a  symbol  of  the  reviving 
year  about  to  dawn,  and  a  promise  of  the  new  life 
which  the  advent  of  the  spring  will  proclaim. 

That  something  of  the  lower  nature  often  com- 
mingles with  higher  things  is,  unfortunately,  a  fact  of 
life  that  needs  no  new  illustration.  Mistletoe  is  a 
"  parasite  "  on  apple  and  oak,  and  parasites  belong  to 
the  groundlings  among  life's  children.  There  is  no 
nobility  in  the  character  of  animal  or  plant  which 
attaches  itself  to  another  living  being,  either  as  a 
lodger  or  a  boarder,  or  in  the  double  capacity  of  an 
unbidden  guest.  Plant-morals,  like  animal-morals,  are 
often  of  the  grossly  utilitarian  type.  If  a  living  being 
is  cunning  enough  to  take  life  easy  by  absorbing  the 
food  which  another  child  of  life  prepares  for  its  own 
use,  the  parasite  doubtless  benefits  by  its  assumption 
of  the  role  of  unwelcome  guest. 

But  "  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  its  revenges." 


n6 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


There  is  a  stern  decree  of  that  implacable  female, 
Madre  Natura,  which  declares  that  parasitism  includes 
the  lowering  of  the  form  which  sacrifices  its  vital  in- 
dependence to  luxurious  comfort  and  inglorious  ease. 
In  animals,  legs,  stomachs,  eyes,  and  other  belongings 
are  swept  away  when  the  parasite,  attaching  itself  to 
another  animal,  is  found  to  have  no  use  for  the  organs 
of  free  and  normal  existence.  This  is  the  penalty  of 
parasitism  everywhere — degradation  and  backsliding 


Fig.  25. — Mistletoe  (yiscwn  album),    a.  Flower  ;  b.  Fruit. 

in  the  vital  scale.      Yet  in  our  mistletoe  there  is  one 
redeeming  feature. 

Parasite  though  it  may  be,  it  has  still  a  saving 
clause  in  its  botanical  character.  I  have  before  me 
a  piece  of  an  apple-tree's  branch.  It  has  been  cut 
through  dexterously  enough,  and  the  relations  of  a 
sprig  of  mistletoe  which  has  attached  itself  to  the 
bough  are  rendered  clear  and  distinct.  The  mistletoe 
is  not  merely  a  lodger  on  the  apple ;  it  is  a  boarder 
likewise.  Like  certain  dissatisfied  tenants  nowadays, 
it  insists  on  holding  to  its  landlord,  while  it  declines 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH.  117 

to  pay  rent  in  any  shape  or  form.  Into  the  substance 
of  the  apple-tree,  the  parasite  has  dipped  its  sucking 
roots,  and  a  whole  array  of  these  roots  is  seen  in  my 
section,  serving  to  drink  up  into  the  mistletoe-plant 
the  sap  which  the  apple-tree  has  made  and  elaborated 
for  its  own  use.  There  is  no  intermingling  here  of 
parasite  and  prey.  It  is  an  attachment  pure  and 
simple  for  purposes  of  lodgment  and  food. 

If  you  go  back  in  mistletoe-life  perchance  you  may 
trace  the  beginning  of  this  curious  habit.  The  berries 
of  mistletoe,  when  examined  closely,  are  seen  to 
contain  a  very  glutinous  fluid.  The  ripe  berry  is,  in 
fact,  a  mass  of  vegetable  gum,  which  is  developed  in 
the  rind  or  covering  of  the  fruit.  This  gum  is  part 
and  parcel  of  a  distinct  purpose  in  mistletoe-life. 
When  the  birds  attack  the  berries  and  liberate  the 
seeds,  the  latter,  falling  on  the  bark  of  trees,  adhere 
thereto  by  aid  of  the  natural  glue  they  contain  or 
possess. 

This  is  the  first  step  in  the  act  of  parasitism.  The 
bird  acts  as  the  unconscious  distributor  of  the  mistle- 
toe seeds,  and  the  plant,  which  has  tacitly  bargained 
for  this  conveyance  (through  its  offer  of  a  free 
breakfast-table  to  the  bird),  then  works  out  its  own 
life-purposes.  Once  settled  on  the  bark  of  the  tree, 
the  mistletoe  seed,  in  virtue  of  its  inborn  instinct, 
appreciates  its  surroundings. 

In  the  earth,  where  a  respectable  seed  is  at  home, 
it  would  perish  and  die.  On  the  apple-tree's  bark  it 
is  in  clover.  It  has  found  its  haven,  and  now  makes 
the  most  of  its  chance.  Germination  of  the  seed  is 
soon  set  up,  and  then  the  radicle,  which  is  simply  the 
youthful  root,  penetrates  the  bark  of  the  tree,  and 
seeks  out  a  special  layer  of  the  stem  of  its  host.  This 


ii8  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

is  the  layer,  near  the  bark,  through  which  the  sap 
ascends. 

Now,  this  fluid  forms  what  botanists  call  the 
" crude"  sap.  It  is  on  its  way,  in  other  words,  to 
become  perfected  in  the  leaves  of  the  apple-tree.  Once 
in  the  leaves  of  its  own  proper  maker,  the  sap  would 
acquire  all  the  properties  which  fit  it  for  the  nourish- 
ment of  the  plant.  Why,  then,  does  the  mistletoe 
select  the  imperfect  sap  of  its  host,  in  place  of  drawing 
from  the  tissues  of  its  prey  the  perfect  material  ? 

The  answer  to  this  question  brings  us  back  to  that 
remark  of  mine  wherein  I  declared  that  a  redeeming 
feature  existed  in  the  constitution  of  the  mistletoe 
bough.  Our  parasite  has  not  passed  quite  to  the 
depths  of  life's  degradation  after  all.  It  still  harbours 
a  habit  of  independent  food-making  which  constitutes 
a  saving  clause  in  its  moral  character. 

For  the  crude  sap  which  it  absorbs  by  aid  of  its 
roots  passes  into  the  mistletoe's  own  frame,  and  there 
undergoes  a  further  elaboration.  Into  its  leaves  pass 
the  undigested  products  of  the  apple-tree's  work,  and 
in  the  leaves  the  stolen  sap  is  made  fit  for  nourishing 
the  parasite's  own  blossoms,  and  for  developing  the 
berries  and  seeds  which  are  to  lay  the  foundations  of 
the  new  mistletoe  race. 

The  green  leaves  of  our  parasite  also  teach  us  that 
it  may  and  does  do  something  more  in  the  work  of 
food-making.  Green  leaves  always  mean  a  power  of 
absorbing  from  the  air  the  carbonic  acid  gas  which 
forms  part  of  the  food  of  every  green  plant.  Your 
colourless  mushroom  will  have  none  of  this  gas ;  it  is 
a  more  dainty  feeder,  and  demands  something  of  the 
animal  dietary.  Mistletoe,  perchance,  is  on  the  way 
to  lower  things. 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH.  119 

Parasitism  seldom  remains  a  •  stable  habit  of  life ; 
and  if  the  forces  of  Nature  work  out  their  end — as, 
apparently,  they  have  done  in  other  plants — there 
may  dawn  a  far-off  Christmas  season  when  mistle- 
toe, having  lost  its  leaves,  and  parted  with  the  last 
evidences  of  its  independence,  will  no  longer  remain 
to  cheer  the  heart  of  man,  or  to  grace  the  social  life 
of  Yule. 
9 


XXII. 

1fooll£  JBerries. 

THAT  spray  of  holly  in  the  smoking-room  which  re- 
mains over  from  the  Christmas  festivities,  with  its  red 
berries  gleaming  from  among  their  background  and 
setting  of  dark  green  leaves,  has  been  teaching  me  a 
curious  story  of  plant-life  as  I  lay  lazily  this  morning 
enjoying  a  fragrant  and  soothing  Havana.  Outside 
there  are  holly- bushes  fringing  the  lawn-tennis  ground, 
and  a  sprinkling  of  snow  has  set  out  the  greenness  of 
leaf  and  the  redness  of  berry  better  far  than  the  neutral 
tint  of  the  smoking-room  wall.  The  thought  which 
arose  in  my  mind  had  reference  to  the  uses  of  colour 
in  fruit,  and  to  the  possible  advantages  which  accrue 
to  the  holly  tribe  and  to  all  its  kith  and  kin  which 
possess  coloured  fruits  conspicuously  displayed.  Time 
was,  when  man's  observation  of  things  extended  just 
so  far  as  the  things  themselves. 

Quite  true ;  my  metaphysical  friends,  I  know,  will 
argue  for  hours  about  "  the  nature  of  things  in  them- 
selves." This  smoking-room  has  heard  learned  talk, 
prolonged  into  the  small  hours,  about  Aristotelian 
notions  and  the  Berkeleian  philosophy  of  an  outer  world 
• — which  philosophers  say  we  make  out  of  ourselves 
largely  or  completely.  But  in  the  science  of  nowadays 
we  have  acquired  the  habit  of  going  beyond  objects  to 


HOLLY  BERRIES.  121 

seek  out  their  meaning.  The  holly-berries  are  pretty 
and  pleasing,  no  doubt.  Linnaeus — cautious,  observant 
old  Swede — would  have  contented  himself  with  a 
minute  description  of  the  holly  tree.  Every  character 
of  leaf,  stem,  fruit,  and  flower  would  have  been  duly 
noted  as  a  guide  to  classification. 

Nature,  in  those  days,  was  regarded  as  a  well- 
ordered  museum.  "  Here's  a  holly,  and  there's  an 
apple,"  was  the  tacit  summation  of  botany  in  bygone 
days.  They  were  species-makers  and  variety-mongers 
in  those  times,  and  were  uncompromising  advocates  of 
exact  description  and  enumeration  of  the  characters  of 
animals  and  plants.  We  have  changed  all  that,  thanks 
to  the  master-spirits  which  have  taught  us  that  nothing 
in  nature  stands  solitary  or  alone.  There  has  been 
a  tremendous  searching  out  of  the  "  reason  why  "  of 
everything  since  the  days  of  Linnaeus.  Books  on 
botany,  written,  say,  thirty  years  ago,  are  filled  with 
dry  details  and  detached  facts.  Now  the  dry  bones 
of  description  are  made  to  glow  with  vitality,  and  the 
facts  are  linked  together  like  pearls  on  a  string,  to 
make  up  an  interesting  story  of  how  things  have 
come  to  be  what  they  are.  Holly-berries  were  pro- 
bably as  red  and  holly  leaves  were  as  green  in  the 
past  cycles  as  they  are  now  —  and  that  was  all. 
To-day,  one  wants  to  know  why  the  leaves  are  green, 
why  the  berries  are  red,  and  what  uses  and  purposes 
both  serve,  not  merely  as  a  part  of  holly-life,  but  as 
parcel  of  plant-existence  at  large. 

Between  fruits  and  flowers,  in  the  matter  of  colour, 
there  is  a  close  and  intimate  association.  Every  school- 
boy who  is  taught  botany,  knows  that  flowers  are 
coloured  to  attract  insects,  while  the  insects  in  turn 
cross-fertilise  the  plants  by  carrying  the  pollen-dust 


122  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

from  one  flower  to  another  flower  of  the  same  species. 
Colour  in  flowers,  then,  has  a  purpose  all  undreamt  of 
by  the  older  botanists. 

What  of  fruits  ?  Colour  here,  in  the  logical  sequence 
of  events,  must  be  credited  with  a  purpose  also.  Let 
us  see  what  that  design  may  be.  When  you  look  at 
an  apple  or  orange  you  are  struck  by  the  apparently 
big  size  of  the  edible  part  of  the  fruit,  and  by  the 
relatively  small  size  of  the  seeds.  Compared  with, 
say,  the  fruits  of  a  buttercup,  represented  by  the 
collection  of  little  dry  green  bodies  borne  on  the  end 
of  the  flower  stalk,  the  apple,  orange,  peach,  plum,  and 
cherry  are  grandiose  in  the  extreme.  The  apple  sub- 
stance does  not  nourish  the  seed.  There  is  no  question 
of  nutrition  involved  in  the  matter  at  all.  The  seeds 
are  all  ready  to  produce  the  new  plants,  and  lie  con- 
cealed within  the  apple,  and  cherry  or  plum  stone, 
waiting  their  season  and  opportunity. 

Why,  then,  all  this  big  growth  of  eatable  material  ? 
The  answer  is,  "  For  the  birds  and  insects  and  for 
any  other  animal  agencies  which  will  help  the  plant 
on  its  way  of  life."  '  The  blackbirds  that  peck  at  the 
peaches  and  apples  are  Nature's  servitors.  They  come 
for  their  food  to  the  gardener's  preserves,  and  as  they 
split  up  the  dainty  succulent  fruit,  they  liberate  the 
seeds,  and  thus  secure  the  prospect  of  fresh  genera- 
tions of  plants.  Here,  then,  is  a  philosophy  of  fleshy 
fruits  for  your  consideration,  and  in  it  is  involved  a 
philosophy  of  coloured  fruits  as  well.  The  colour 
attracts,  and  the  fruit-substance  rewards,  the  birds  : 
and  the  plant  gains  through  the  liberation  of  its  seeds 
and  through  the  chances  thus  acquired  of  an  early  and 
satisfactory  development  in  the  soil. 

The  holly-berries,  like  the  rowans  and  barberry 


HOLLY  BERRIES.  123 

fruits,  are  thus  coloured  to  attract  birds.  In  the  bar- 
berry you  see  how  the  fruits  are  clustered,  so  as  to 
mass  the  colour  and  to  make  sure  of  the  fruit  catching 
the  eye  of  the  bird-visitor.  The  rowan-tree  has  less 
dense  clusters  of  berries,  and  the  holly  is  still  more 
modest  in  respect  of  its  fruit-development.  But  what 
holly  loses  in  the  size  of  its  clusters,  it  gains  in  the 
brightness  of  its  berries.  Against  the  dark  green  of 
the  leaves,  the  berries  stand  out  with  great  prominence. 

Their  after- history  is  instructive  enough.  A  holly- 
berry  is  gobbled  up  by  a  bird  with  ease.  What  of 
the  seeds  the  berries  contain  ?  Does  digestion, 
which  in  a  bird  is  a  tolerably  rough  and  mechani- 
cal process,  destroy  the  seeds  ?  Not  so.  The  seeds, 
encased  each  in  its  dense  tough  covering,  resist  even 
the  digestion  of  the  bird's  gizzard  and  stomach,  and 
they  are  passed  on  uninjured  through  the  alimentary 
tract  of  the  animal.  Thus  liberated,  and  the  bird 
being  the  gainer  by  its  digestion  of  the  soft  parts  of 
the  berries,  the  holly-seeds  fall  into  the  soil  and  grow 
up  each  in  time  to  the  holly-tree. 

Note  again,  how  this  interaction  between  bird  and 
fruit  serves  another  useful  purpose.  Birds  traverse 
leagues  of  country  in  their  peregrinations.  They  may 
thus  convey  the  holly-seeds  to  regions  hundreds  of 
miles  from  the  parent  tree  whence  the  berries  were 
plucked.  You  begin  with  the  colour  of  a  berry,  and 
you  end  by  securing  the  distribution  of  holly-plants 
far  and  wide  through  the  agency  of  the  bird. 

We  owe  much  to  the  dispersal  of  seeds  by  such 
agencies.  There  is  a  plant  of  the  New  World,  the 
American  currant,  which  long  ago  was  introduced  into 
France,  for  the  sake  of  the  dark  red  juice  of  its  berries, 
which  was  used  to  colour  wines.  At  Bordeaux  this 


124  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

currant  was  extensively  cultivated.  Man  introduced 
the  plant,  but  mark  the  greater  influence  of  the  colour 
of  its  fruits  and  the  work  of  the  birds.  Now,  the 
American  currant  is  found  universally  throughout  the 
South  of  France.  It  has  spread  also  into  Switzerland, 
and  has  reached  the  Tyrol. 

You  can,  therefore,  prophesy  with  considerable 
safety  regarding  plants  and  their  chances  of  distribu- 
tion, when  you  see  these  fruits  and  learn  the  story  of 
their  distribution.  Holly-berries  have  social  associa- 
tions dear  to  the  hearts  of  us  all.  They  possess, 
however,  in  their  redness  and  in  their  attraction  for 
bird-visitors,  a  romance  that  is  all  their  own. 


XXIII. 

Some  /nMcroscopic  ffrfenfcs, 

WHEN  a  very  thin  film  of  blood  is  placed  under  a 
microscope  of  sufficient  power,  we  observe  that,  so  far 
from  being  a  uniformly  red  fluid,  blood  is  really  as 
colourless  as  water.  This  apparent  paradox  between 
what  we  see  with  the  unassisted  sight  and  what  is  be- 
held under  the  microscope,  is  entirely  explained  when 
we  discover  that  the  red  colour  of  blood  is  due,  not  to 
any  inherent  property  of  colour  in  blood  a?  a  fluid, 
but  to  the  enormous  number  of  red  particles  which 
float  in  it.  What  the  microscope  enables  us  to  see 
is  the  clear  liquid  between  the  red  particles  it  bears. 
To  the  naked  eye,  which  is  unable  to  distinguish 
minute  objects,  and  which  sees  things  only  in  the 
mass,  as  it  were,  blood  naturally  appears  red.  In  any 
case,  it  will  take  its  colour  from  its  floating  particles. 
Some  worms  have  green  blood  ;  this  is  due  to  the 
green  hue  of  their  blood-particles.  An  oyster  or  a 
lobster  has  colourless  blood,  because  it  possesses  no 
coloured  particles  at  all,  but  only  white  or  colourless 
ones.  The  blood-particles  we  name  "  corpuscles  ;  " 
and  in  addition  to  the  red  ones  seen  in  our  blood 
there  are  also  white  corpuscles.  The  latter  are  less 
numerous  than  the  red,  and  we  may  calculate  that 
about  one  white  to  400  or  500  red  corpuscles,  is  to 


126  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

be  taken  as  a  fair  or  average  estimate  of  their  pro- 
portion. The  red  corpuscles  of  the  blood  discharge 
a  very  important  duty  in  the  maintenance  of  our  lives. 
They  are  the  gas-carriers  of  the  blood.  They  go  forth 
from  the  lungs  laden  with  the  oxygen  we  have  breathed 
in  ;  they  return  to  the  lungs  charged  with  the  carbonic 
acid  gas  which  we  have  to  breathe  out.  So  far,  then; 
the  use  and  duty  of  the  millions  of  red  particles  in  our 
blood  are  not  by  any  means  matters  of  doubt. 

The  white  corpuscles,  on  the  other  hand,  possess  a 
far  more  curious  and  eventful  history.  Each  is  a 
mass  or  cell  of  living  matter — "  protoplasm,"  as  it  is 
named — measuring  in  diameter  the  one  twenty-five 
hundredth  part  of  an  inch  or  thereabouts.  It  also 
possesses  a  smaller  and  solid  particle  in  its  interior. 
Now,  being  a  mass  of  living  matter,  our  white  cor- 
puscle possesses  powers  of  independent  movement ; 
and  this  first  fact  introduces  us  to  a  startling  con- 
sideration. We  possess  in  our  blood  millions  of  little 
living  bodies,  which  are,  in  a  sense,  independent  of 
us — autonomous  subjects,  as  it  were,  of  the  body  at 
large.  They  are  not  under  our  control  in  any  sense ; 
but  live  and  move,  and  discharge  their  duties  as  freely 
as  if  they  recognised  no  right  or  title  of  their  possessor 
to  question  their  acts. 

Somewhere  about  the  year  1846,  Dr.  Augustus 
Waller,  observing  the  circulation  in  the  finest  blood- 
vessels— such  as  we  can  observe  in  the  web  of  the 
frog's  foot,  and  in  other  transparent  textures  of  that 
convenient  animal's  frame — declared  that  he  saw  blood 
corpuscles,  and  especially  white  ones,  insinuating  their 
way  through  the  walls  of  the  vessels,  and,  passing 
out  through  these  tubes,  finally  land  amid  the  tissues 
of  the  animal's  frame.  This  observation,  at  first  re- 


SOME  MICROSCOPIC  FRIENDS.  127 

ceived  with  hesitation  and  surprise,  was  fully  con- 
firmed. It  became  known  that  the  white  corpuscles, 
instead  of  leaving  the  blood-vessels  as  a  matter  of 
rarity,  executed  that  manoeuvre  as  part  and  parcel  of 
their  ordinary  life-work.  They  are  seen  to  migrate 
regularly  from  their  protecting  vessels,  and  are  ob- 
served to  wander  about,  as  it  were,  within  the  body, 
each  on  a  roving  commission,  apparently  uncontrolled 
by  any  of  the  familiar  forces  or  conditions  of  the 
frame. 

Matters  remained  at  this  stage  of  research  for  a 
considerable  number  of  years.  Not  so  very  long  ago, 
ardent  observers,  however,  once  again  returned  to  the 
history  of  these  wandering  blood-particles.  I  have 


Fig   26. — A  White  Corpuscle  of  the  Blood  (1-5,  forms  assumed  successively 
by  one  and  the  same  Corpuscle). 

always  entertained  an  objection  to  quoting  in  popular 
papers  names  which  are  technical  in  nature ;  but, 
possibly,  there  will  be  no  great  risk  of  startling  any 
of  my  readers  if  I  add  that  these  white  blood-particles 
are  now  known  as  "  leucocytes ; "  while,  from  another 
characteristic  of  their  life  and  labour,  they  have  also 
been  named  "phagocytes." 

Watching  one  of  these  living  particles  on  a  micro- 
scope slide  especially  kept  at  the  blood's  own  tem- 
perature, we  can  see  it  literally  to  flow  from  one 
shape  to  another.  It  imitates  in  this  way  the  move- 
ments of  many  an  animalcule  in  the  pools.  We  may 
also  see  our  independent  white  corpuscle  seizing  and 
digesting  food  particles,  as  if,  in  very  truth,  it  were 


128  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

an  independent  animalcule.  This  power  of  feeding, 
we  shall  see,  is  an  important  characteristic  of  our 
wandering  particle. 

On  this  account  it  has  been  called  a  "  phagocyte  " — 
literally  an  "  eating-cell."  In  all  ordinary  animals,  from 
man  downwards,  then,  we  see  these  white  blood-cells, 
migrating  from  blood-vessels,  passing  out  among  the 
tissues,  and  thus  showing  forth  an  independence  which 
is  not  without  physiological  reason  or  justifiable  pre- 
text. The  further  story  of  their  life-work  is  interest- 
ing and  may  be  readily  understood.  For  it  is  now  a 
matter  of  certainty  that  among  all  the  servants  of  our 
bodies,  we  possess  none  more  active,  none  more  faith- 
ful, and  none  more  necessary  than  our  wandering  cells. 

When  the  young  frog  or  tadpole  attains  a  certain 
stage  of  development,  and  when  it  is  about  to  exchange 
its  water-life  for  the  higher  land-existence,  the  fish- 
like  tail  requires  repression  and  demands  extinction  as 
part  and  parcel  of  frog-advance.  Of  old,  we  believed 
the  disappearance  of  the  frog's  tail  was  due  to  a  simple 
process  of  atrophy  or  wasting  away.  We  know  better 
to-day. 

By  close  microscopic  investigation,  we  are  able 
to  see  a  curious  work  proceeding  in  the  tadpole's 
appendage.  It  swarms  with  white  cells  which  have 
migrated  into  its  substance  from  the  blood-vessels. 
They  are  there  for  a  purpose,  and  they  work  with  a 
will.  They  are  seen  in  the  act  of  eating  and  devour- 
ing the  substance  of  their  possessor.  The  tadpole  in 
this  sense,  and  through  its  semi-independent  white- 
blood  cells,  is  living  upon  itself,  and  eating  up  life's 
"  principal "  in  place  of  living  upon  the  interest  repre- 
sented by  its  food. 

Within  the  bodies  of  these  white  cells  in  the  tad- 


SOME  MICROSCOPIC  FRIENDS.  129 

pole's  tail,  microscopists  have  been  enabled  actually  to 
see  the  fragments  of  muscle  and  nerve  they  have  torn 
from  the  tail  substance.  Little  wonder  that  the  tail 
"  grows  small  by  degrees  and  beautifully  less  "  under 
such  a  vigorous  attack  ;  and  in  the  gills  of  the  tadpole 
(which  disappear  with  the  tail)  the  same  devouring 
process  is  seen  to  proceed.  Thus,  the  disappearance 
of  the  tail  is  a  matter  of  vital  action — as  much  so, 
indeed,  in  one  sense,  as  its  growth.  It  is  a  new 
experience  of  life  to  find  certain  of  the  living  particles 
of  the  body  set  apart,  as  in  the  case  of  the  frog,  for 
the  work  of  ridding  that  body  of  its  encumbrance,  and 
of  assisting  it  to  rise  in  the  scale  of  life. 

Nor  is  this  all.  In  the  water-fleas  wrhich  swarm  in 
every  brook,  the  white  cells  have  been  seen  engaging 
in  a  hand-to-hand  fight  with  vegetable  spores  or  fungi 
which  gained  admittance  to  the  bodies  of  the  fleas, 
and  threatened  to  kill  those  animals.  Like  a  ship 
boarded  by  enemies,  the  water-flea's  body  was  the 
scene  of  a  grim  contest.  As  a  writer  puts  it,  if  the 
white  cells  overpower  and  eat  up  the  vegetable  in- 
truders, the  water-flea  lives;  if  the  cells  fail  to  over- 
come the  invaders,  the  water-flea  dies. 

A  further  thought  about  these  microscopic  friends 
extends  to  human  life.  If  our  bodies  receive  germs 
which  grow  and  multiply  within  our  tissues,  what  is 
seen  in  the  water-flea  will  occur  within  the  human 
frame.  There  is  a  battle  between  our  white  cells  and 
the  germs  of  disease.  If  the  latter  are  victorious,  we 
fall  ill  of  the  fever  or  other  ailment ;  if  we  escape 
the  fever,  our  immunity  is  due  to  the  victory  of  our 
microscopic  friends  over  the  germs. 


XXIV. 

Some  fllMcroscopic  /l&ummtes, 

THERE  is  a  strong  temptation  in  this  spring  weather 
to  anticipate  the  search  for  life  in  the  pools.  Eager 
naturalists  are  already  on  the  qui  vive  for  the  annual 
crop  of  objects  for  the  microscope,  and,  collecting-bottle 
in  hand,  are  to  be  seen  every  fine  day  "  grubbing  "  for 
specimens,  as  the  onlookers  name  the  quest.  One  is 
tempted  to  remark,  however,  that,  to  find  interesting 
specimens,  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  beyond  one's  own 
rain-water  barrel,  or  the  gutters  of  the  house-roof. 

I  have  been  reading  anew  to-day — incited  thereto 
by  the  discovery  of  certain  animalcules  in  some  rain- 
water which  had  collected  on  my  window-sill — the 
account  of  a  remarkable  discovery  made  by  that 
worthy  old  Dutch  naturalist,  Leeuwenhoek,  some- 
where about  the  year  1702.  He  was  a  great  authority 
on  microscope-glasses  in  days  when  that  instrument 
was  in  its  infancy ;  and  as  became  an  expert,  was 
perpetually  on  the  look-out  for  objects  wherewith  to 
test  the  powers  of  the  lenses  he  had  ground. 

So  it  happened  that  "  on  the  25th  of  August,"  to 
use  Leeuwenhoek's  own  words,  he  "  saw  in  a  leaden 
gutter  at  the  fore  part  of  my  house,  for  the  length  of 
about  five  feet  and  the  breadth  of  seven  inches,  a  settle- 
ment of  rain-water  which  appeared  of  a  red  colour.  .  .  . 
I  took  a  drop  of  this  water,"  he  continues,  "  which 
I  placed  before  the  microscope,  and  in  it  I  discovered 


SOME  MICROSCOPIC  MUMMIES.  131 

a  great  number  of  animalcules,  some  of  them  red,  and 
others  of  them  green.  The  largest  of  these,  viewed 
through  the  microscope,  did  not  appear  bigger  than  a 
large  grain  of  sand  to  the  naked  eye ;  the  size  of  the 
others  was  gradually  less  and  less.  They  were,  for 
the  most  part,  of  a  round  shape,  and  in  the  green  ones 
the  middle  part  of  their  bodies  was  of  a  yellowish 
colour.  Their  bodies  seemed  composed  of  particles  of 
an  oval  shape.  They  were  also  provided  with  certain 
short  and  slender  organs  or  limbs,  which  were  pro- 
truded a  little  way  out  of  their  bodies,  by  means  of 
which  they  caused  a  kind  of  circular  motion  and  current 
in  the  water  :  when  they  were  at  rest  and  fixed  them- 
selves to  the  glass,  they  had  the  shape  of  a  pear  with 
a  short  stalk." 

So  far,  quaint  old  Leeuwenhoek.  What  he  saw 
in  1702  and  discovered  in  that  year,  any  one  may  see 
and  admire  to-day.  For  the  species  of  animalcule 
he  described  was  the  common  "  wheel-animalcule,"  or 
Rotifer  vulgaris,  as  it  is  scientifically  named.  This 
animal  forms  a  capital  study  for  a  young  microscopist. 
As  shown  forth  in  our  illustrations,  its  main  features 
agree  tolerably  well  with  the  description  of  the  old 
Dutch  naturalist.  The  "  certain  short  and  slender 
organs  or  limbs  "  which  he  noted  as  being  "  protruded 
a  little  way  out  of  their  bodies,"  and  as  causing  currents 
in  the  water,  were  the  so-called  "  wheels  "  from  which 
the  animalcules  receive  their  familiar  name.  These 
"  wheels  "  may  be  seen  at  the  head  of  the  animalcule 
(figs.  27  and  28),  fringed  with  delicate  lashes  or  cilia, 
of  the  delicacy  of  which  no  drawing  can  give  any  idea. 

The  cilia  are  threads  of  living  protoplasm,  which  on 
their  own  account  keep  up  a  perpetual  vibratile  motion, 
as  in  the  gills  of  the  oyster  and  mussel,  and  in  the 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


sponge.  It  is  this  ciliary  movement  which,  acting  like  so 
many  oars,  drives  the  animalcule  hither  and  thither  by 
rotary  movement.  But,  all  the  same,  it  is  not  the  wheels 
themselves  which  move.  This  is  a  mistake  in  observa- 
tion commonly  made  by  young  observers.  They  fancy 
the  wheels  themselves  rotate ;  whereas  this  appearance 


Fig.  27. — Rotifer :  Male. 


Fig.  28. — Rotifer  :  Female. 

a,  The  ciliated  wheel-discs  ;  b,  the  jaws  ;  c,  the  stomach ;  d,  water-vessels  ; 
e,  the  contractile  water-sac  ;  f,  the  pincer-like  tail ;  g,  the  "  eye." 

is  produced  by  the  cilia,  each  bending  rapidly  in  its 
turn,  and  so  quickly  straightening  and  bending  again, 
that  the  wheel  appears  itself  to  be  in  action.  The 
wheels,  as  Leeuwenhoek  tells  us,  can  be  withdrawn 
or  protruded  from  the  body,  but  it  is  their  cilia  which 
alone  are  active.  The  optical  illusion  here  is  similar  to 
hat  whereby,  when  the  stalks  of  wheat  or  corn  bend 


SOME  MICROSCOPIC  MUMMIES.  133 

beneath  the  force  of  the  wind,  we  can  well  nigh  fancy 
that  real  moving  waves  pass  over  the  surface  of  the  field. 

Hurrying  through  the  water,  then,  we  find  our 
wheel-animalcules  propelled  by  their  ciliary  lashes.  As 
the  mouth  opens  below  the  wheels,  we  can  understand 
how  particles  of  food  are  swept  therein  by  the  same 
action  which  serves  for  movement.  Then,  when  the 
animalcule  fixes  itself,  as  Leeuwenhoek  noticed,  by  its 
tail-pincers  (f)  and  still  keeps  its  lashes  in  action,  we 
may  note  how,  like  a  steamer  moored  to  the  quay,  but 
whose  paddles  continue  to  revolve,  the  animalcule's  cur- 
rents will  act  most  forcibly  in  the  way  of  food-getting. 

Our  common  rotifer  is  the  type  of  a  very  large  class 
of  animalcules,  many  of  which,  like  itself,  are  free- 
swimming  in  habits,  while  others  build  elaborate  tubes 
as  dwelling-places,  and  exhibit  more  of  the  stay-at- 
home  philosophy  than  their  roving  neighbours.  But 
that  feature  which  most  excites  our  interest  in  this 
curious  class  of  wheel-bearing  specks,  is  a  certain 
wondrous  power  they  possess  of  surviving  and  re- 
viving after  being  exposed  to  conditions  of  hardship 
which  would  certainly  extinguish  the  life  and  vitality 
of  all  higher  animals,  and  indeed  of  many  other  animal- 
cules. Old  Leeuwenhoek  was  the  first  to  bring  this 
fact  under  notice,  and  numerous  experiments  have  been 
made  after  his  day  by  way  of  confirming  his  observa- 
tions. He  shall  tell  us  his  story,  once  again,  in  his 
own  words : — 

In  October  1702,  he  observes,  he  caused  the  dry 
debris  of  the  house-gutters  to  be  collected.  About  a 
teacupful  was  gathered  and  placed  in  his  desk  in  paper. 
Then,  "  after  the  above-mentioned  dry  substance  had 
been  nearly  twenty-one  months  in  the  paper,  I  put  into 
a  glass  tube,  of  an  inch  diameter,  the  remainder  of 


134  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

what  I  had  by  me,  and  poured  upon  it  boiled  rain- 
water after  it  was  almost  cold.  .  .  .  Some  hours  after, 
I  discovered  a  few  [animalcules]  that  had  opened  or 
unfolded  their  bodies,  swimming  through  the  water." 
On  other  occasions,  having  dried  up  his  animalcules 
in  a  glass  tube,  Leeuwenhoek  left  them  for  a  day  or 
two  in  this  desiccated  state.  He  then  "  invited  some 
gentlemen  to  come  and  partake  of  the  agreeable  spec- 
tacle with  me — that  is,  to  see  how  the  said  animal- 
culse  would  divest  themselves  of  their  globular  [i.e., 
their  dried]  figure,  and  swim  about  in  the  water." 
After  satisfying  themselves  that  the  wheel-animalcules 
were  really  dried,  some  water  was  poured  into  a  glass 
tube.  "Then  the  gentlemen  took  the  said  tube  into 
their  hands,  and  viewing  it  one  after  the  other  through 
a  microscope,  they  saw  the  animalculae,  after  the  space 
of  about  half-an-hour,  beginning  to  open  and  extend 
their  bodies,  and  getting  clear  of  the  glass,  to  swim 
about  the  water,  excepting  only  two  of  the  largest  of 
them,  that  stayed  longer  on  the  sides  of  the  glass  before 
they  stretched  out  their  bodies  and  swam  away." 

Wheel -animalcules  have  similarly  been  revived 
which  had  been  preserved  dried  for  four  years,  and  the 
late  Dr.  Carpenter  dried  and  revived  some  specimens 
at  least  six  times.  Now,  what  has  science  to  say  to 
this  drying  and  reviving  of  animals  possessing  delicate 
organs  and  structures  ?  Almost  nothing.  We  cannot 
even  picture  to  ourselves  the  state  or  condition  of  the 
mummified  wheel-animalcule.  Water  is  an  essential 
constituent  of  the  bodies  of  every  living  thing.  Do 
these  animalcules,  then,  store  this  essential  part  of 
their  tissues  despite  the  drying  ?  or  do  they  contrive 
to  exist  as  realistic  microscopic  mummies,  waiting  for 
the  return  of  the  reviving  fluid  ?  Who  can  say  ? 


XXV. 

ZTbe  Worfeers  of  tbe 

SOME  days  ago  a  person  remarked  in  my  hearing  that, 
while  science  dealt  with  both  the  big  things  and  the 
little  things  of  life  and  nature,  it  had  in  reality  thrown 
very  little  light  indeed  on  the  more  intricate  bodily 
processes  in  virtue  of  which  life  is  carried  on.  The 
plaint  of  my  friend  was  that  science  knew  about 
things  "  in  the  rough,"  but  could  not  descend  to  take 
cognisance,  in  the  same  degree,  of  things  of  minute 
estate. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  science  and  mankind  at 
large,"  I  replied,  "  were  your  assertion  true."  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  field  of  inquiry  which  has 
yielded  such  a  large  harvest  to  the  truth-seeker  of 
late  years  as  that  of  microscopic  research.  There  is 
scarcely  a  great  discovery  which  has  been  made  within 
the  past  decade  in  which  our  knowledge  of  the  infinitely 
little,  as  shown  forth  by  the  microscope,  has  not  figured 
most  prominently.  Disease-germs  and  countless  other 
lower  forms  of  life  have  been  traced  out  in  their 
development  and  tracked  to  their  origin.  Living 
things,  whose  dimensions  are  to  be  estimated  by  the 
thousandth  parts  of  inches,  are  as  well-known  to  us 
to-day,  as  is  the  ostrich  or  the  elephant. 

So   far  from  the   "  little   things "    of  the  universe 


136  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

escaping  our  attention,  I  should  be  inclined  to  maintain 
that  they  largely  monopolise  science  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  big  things.  We  are  beginning  to  find  out,  in 
fact,  that  only  by  knowing  something  of  the  actions 
which  proceed  in  the  lower  byways  of  life  can  exist- 
ence in  the  main  be  understood  at  all.  Hence,  if  any 
preparation  for  a  knowledge  of  humanity  be  required, 
1  should  say  one  would  find  it  in  a  microscopic  study 
of  what  the  ditches  contain,  and  of  what  a  leaf  harbours. 
"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,"  said  the  poet 
of  Twickenham.  To  this  very  proper  aphorism  (in 
its  way)  science  adds  that  the  only  safe  preparation 
for  the  study  of  mankind  is  the  knowledge  of  what 
lower  life  is  and  of  what  lower  life  does. 

The  remark  of  my  friend  suggested  that  within  the 
compass  even  of  human  structures  (and  that  strictly 
following  out  Pope's  aphorism)  one  may  find  many 
phases  of  life  such  as  will  warrant  the  declaration 
that  to  the  microscope  we  owe  a  vast  amount  of  our 
knowledge  of  ourselves.  It  has  often  been  asserted 
that  man  is  a  microcosm — a  world  within  himself; 
and  this  is  highly  true,  if  we  apply  the  saying  to  the 
microscopic  structures  of  his  frame. 

No  sooner  do  we  begin  to  investigate  the  composi- 
tion of  man's  tissues  than  we  discover  that,  so  far 
from  a  human  being  having  any  right  to  be  regarded 
as  a  single  entity,  he  might  claim  a  title  to  be  con- 
sidered a  compound  or  colonial  organism.  One  man 
in  his  time  is  said  by  the  Bard  of  Avon  to  play  many 
parts.  Physiologically,  it  may  be  said,  man  is  very 
many  parts  or  entities  working  together  to  form  and 
to  maintain  an  harmonious  whole.  This  statement 
is  easily  proved.  We  do  not  speak  without  knowing 
when  we  make  such  an  assertion. 


THE  WORKERS  OF  THE  BODY.  137 

Glance  through  the  body's  constitution,  and  you 
will  find,  first  of  all,  that,  wherever  you  have  life  and 
vital  activity,  it  resides  in  a  particular  kind  of  living 
jelly  which  everybody  knows  (by  name,  at  least)  as 
" protoplasm."  This  is  the  "matter  of  life" — it  is 
life-stuff,  in  the  truest  sense ;  since  no  other  matter 
on  the  face  of  this  earth,  save  protoplasm,  shows  the 
phenomena  or  actions  of  life. 

Now,  what  is  true  of  a  man's  body  in  this  respect  is 
equally  true  of  the  body  of  every  other  living  thing — 
animal  or  plant.  When  we  come  to  investigate  how 
this  protoplasm  (of  a  speck  of  which,  the  whole  body 
in  its  germ-state  once  consisted)  is  disposed  in  our 
frames,  we  discover  that  it  is  represented  in  its  most 
active  state  by  microscopic  bodies  to  which  the  name  of 
"  cells  "  is  given.  Here  and  there,  the  protoplasm  has 
been  worked  up  to  form  fibres  and  other  structures  (as 
in  muscles  and  nerves)  ;  but  the  active,  living  elements 
of  our  frames  consist,  undoubtedly,  of  cells. 

What,  then,  is  a  cell  ?  Imagine  a  speck  of  this 
living  matter,  averaging,  say,  the  one  four-hundredth 
of  an  inch  in  diameter,  of  rounded  shape,  bounded  by  a 
kind  of  envelope,  and  having  a  particle  (the  nucleus) 
somewhere  or  other  imbedded  in  its  interior — and  you 
will  have  a  fair  conception  of  what  a  cell  of  ordinary 
size  and  form  is  likely  to  be.  Some  cells  we  know 
of — nerve-cells,  indeed — average  only  the  one  five- 
thousandth  of  an  inch,  or  less,  in  diameter;  and  be- 
tween big  cells  and  little  cells  there  are,  of  course, 
all  gradations  in  size. 

These  cells,  then,  are  the  workers  of  the  body. 
They  are  the  population  of  the  vital  kingdom.  The 
democrats  are  the  cells — -useful  and  necessary,  and 
respectable  members  of  society — which  toil  and  labour 


138  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

to  build  up  bones,  to  form  muscles,  and  to  make  the 
various  secretions.  The  aristocrats  are  the  nerve- 
cells,  which  are  by  no  means  an  idle  plutocracy, 
however,  but  which  work  hard  enough  in  the  ruling, 
direction,  and  governance  of  the  frame. 

There  is  perfect  division  of  labour  in  the  living 
state.  One  group  of  cells  does  not  interfere  with  the 
work  of  another  group.  Each  piece  of  labour,  from  the 
building  of  bone  to  the  making  of  gastric  juice,  is  carried 
out  independently  and  thoroughly  by  workers  set  apart 
for  the  given  purpose.  The  economy  of  a  bee's  hive 
is  not  more  rigidly  ordered  than  is  the  work  of  our 
own  body  in  respect  of  its  labourers  and  their  specific 
duties ;  and  in  the  vast  proportion  of  their  affairs 
these  workers  of  ours  are  self-directive,  even  while 
they  own  the  supremacy  of  brain  and  nerves  as  their 
controlling  power. 

If  we  think  of  the  countless  operations  which  have 
to  be  undertaken  from  hour  to  hour  to  maintain  our 
bodies  in  action,  we  may  begin  to  realise  what  perfect 
co-operatiori  really  means,  and  what  this  colonial  con- 
stitution of  ours  implies.  For  example,  saliva  has  to 
be  secreted,  for  the  purpose  of  digestion  in  the  mouth, 
and  for  other  functions  as  well.  This  fluid  is  supplied 
by  three  pairs  of  salivary  glands. 

Now,  the  working  and  essential  parts  of  these  glands 
are  living  cells,  which,  out  of  the  blood  (as  the  raw 
material)  supplied  to  the  glands,  secrete  saliva,  which  is 
the  manufactured  product.  Again,  tears  have  perpetu- 
ally to  be  made  for  washing  the  eyes.  This  secretion 
is  supplied  by  a  couple  of  tear-glands.  Here,  again, 
are  cells,  different  from  those  of  the  salivary  glands, 
and  making  out  of  the  blood  a  very  different  secretion 
to  that  of  the  mouth.  The  cells  of  the  gastric  glands 


THE  WORKERS  OF  THE  BODY.  139 

of  the  stomach  make,  from  the  blood,  gastric  juice. 
Again,  we  see  a  change  of  duty  as  we  pass  to  a  dif- 
ferent set  of  cells.  The  cells  of  the  liver  compose  that 
large  organ,  and  discharge  its  multifarious  duties.  They 
are  the  living  units  of  which  the  liver  is  composed,  and 
are  thus  part  and  parcel  of  the  living  colony  we  term  our 
body.  The  cells  of  the  sweetbread  make  the  digestive 
juice  of  that  gland — another  change  of  duty  and  another 
race  of  cells.  The  brain-cells  guide  and  direct  the  body's 
highest  acts  equally  with  lower  nervous  operations. 

Cells  in  the  skin  repair  our  wounds  and  throw  off 
other  cells  which  are  cast  away  as  the  outer  skin  wears. 
The  bone-cells  renew  and  repair  that  dense  structure, 
and  build  up  the  solid  portions  of  the  frame.  In  a 
word,  every  act  of  life  is  performed  by  the  cells  :  each 
group  of  which  remains  distinct  as  a  colony  of  workers 
charged  with  the  performance  of  a  specific  duty.  Truly, 
then,  it  may  be  held  that  our  life  is  a  divided  existence 
physically  ;  while  from  another  point  of  view  it  is  an 
harmonious  existence,  because  of  the  perfect  co-opera- 
tion of  these  wonderful  workers  of  the  body — the  living 
cells. 


XXVI. 

Germs:  Ooo&  ant> 

TURNING  out  the  contents  of  a  portmanteau  the  other 
day,  a  pair  of  boots,  which  had  evidently  been  deposited 
therein  in  a  damp  condition,  came  to  light  covered 
thickly  in  some  parts  with  a  growth  of  blue  mould. 
To  the  attentions  of  this  mould,  of  course,  no  house- 
wife is  a  stranger.  It  grows  on  her  cheese  and  invades 
her  jelly-pots,  and  does  not  despise  even  damp  boots, 
as  we  have  seen,  in  its  selection  of  a  local  habitation. 
The  question  of  the  mould's  origin  leads  us  in  the 
direction  of  more  than  one  great  and  grave  theory 
regarding  the  beginnings  of  life  at  large. 

Where  the  mould  comes  from  may  best  be  answered, 
as  a  philosophical  query,  by  saying  that  it  springs  from 
a  germ  or  germs,  derived  from  a  parent-mould.  These 
germs,  microscopic  in  size,  are  carried  by  the  air,  and 
are  given  off  from  the  parent-mould  as  minute  living 
particles.  Like  driftwood  on  the  sea,  they  are  borne 
hither  and  thither  in  company  with  many  thousands  of 
neighbour-germs,  like  and  unlike,  and  when  they  find 
a  suitable  soil  (as  in  the  cheese  or  the  jelly)  they  spring 
up  into  the  mould  whereof  they  are  the  early  and 
legitimate  representatives. 

The  air  around  us,  as  Tyndall  long  ago  proved  and 
expressed  it,  is  a  "  stir-about "  of  minute  particles, 


GERMS:  GOOD  AND  BAD. 


141 


some  of  mineral  and  inorganic  nature,  others  of  or- 
ganic and  living  kind.  It  is  an  ocean  having  particles, 
living  and  dead,  for  its  floating  things  ;  and  the  living 
particles,  in  brief,  are  the  "  germs  "  whereof  we  hear 
so  much  that  is  interesting  in  the  science  of  the  day. 
It  is  true  that  we  are  encompassed  about  by  a  great 
cloud  of  living  particles  ;  but  it  is  not  true  to  assert 
that  these  particles  are  all  equally  noxious  to  man  or 
equally  innocuous  in  so  far  as  human  interests  are 
concerned. 

Some  germs,  like  those  of  the  blue  mould,  may 
be  deemed  harmless 
enough  in  their  char- 
acter. Others  again, 
like  those  of  the  yeast- 
plants  (fig.  29),  are  more 
destructive,  it  is  true, 
or  may  be  sometimes 
pressed  into  the  service 
of  man.  That  bottle  of 
claret  you  left  uncorked 
after  dinner  two  days 
ago  has  gone  to  the  bad.  You  declare  it  to  be  as  sour  as 
vinegar;  and  well  may  it  be  so,  for  vinegar  it  has  become. 
Into  your  wine  from  the  air,  there  dropped  sundry  micro- 
scopic germs  of  yeast-plants.  These  bred  and  multiplied 
in  the  soil  they  found  ready  to  hand  in  the  shape  of 
the  wine.  Through  the  exercise  of  their  own  chemical 
powers  they  produce  vinegar  by  a  process  of  fermen- 
tation, just  as  certain  other  and  nearly-related  yeast- 
germs  manufacture  alcohol  out  of  sugary  solutions. 

By  the  air  also  are  carried  the  germs  of  diseases  ; 
and  that  many  of  our  epidemics  are  air-borne  in  their 
nature  and  propagation,  remains  a  sure  fact  of  health- 


142  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

science.  These  germs  of  disease,  dispersed  broadcast, 
like  the  germs  of  the  yeast-plants  and  of  the  blue 
moulds,  seek  a  soil  in  the  shape  of  the  animal  frame. 
Once  found,  this  soil  is  utilised,  and  there  is  witnessed 
in  the  case  of  the  body  an  analogous  process  to  that 
seen  in  the  wine.  The  little  leaven  (of  disease)  which 
leavens  the  whole  lump  (of  the  body)  is  exactly  repre- 
sented by  the  fever-germ.  With  the  Apostle,  one 
might  go  further  and  assert  that,  sown  in  weakness, 
the  germ  appears  in  strength.  In  each  case  the  little 
living  particle,  whether  of  the  mould,  the  yeast-plant, 
or  the  fever,  reproduces  its  like.  It  multiplies  ex- 
ceedingly; the  few  germs  become  thousands,  and  all  we 
see  happening,  alike  in  fermentation  and  in  the  fever, 
is  merely  the  result  of  germ-growth.  "  Like  begets 
like,"  and  thus  the  germ  reproduces  in  each  case,  some- 
times directly,  sometimes  indirectly,  the  likeness  of  the 
parent  to  which  it  owed  its  origin. 

Questions  of  size  are  always  difficult  to  settle  or 
determine  from  a  popular  point  of  view,  and,  when  we 
seek  to  gain  some  adequate  idea  of  the  dimensions  of 
germs,  we  are  met  with  the  difficulty  of  translating 
into  terms  of  common  life  those  of  the  infinitely  little. 
If  we  speak  of  a  germ  which  in  length  is  the  one  ten- 
thousandth  part  of  an  inch — that  is,  equals  one  part 
of  an  inch  which  has  been  divided,  as  to  its  length, 
into  ten  thousand  parts- — we  utterly  fail  to  grasp  any 
notion  of  the  size  indicated.  An  appeal  to  figurative 
description,  while  more  graphic  in  character  perchance, 
yet  leaves  us  with  the  dimmest  conceptions  of  the 
dimensions  of  germs. 

One  writer  tells  us  that  on  the  area  of  a  single 
square  inch  we  could  place,  in  a  single  layer,  a  popu- 
lation of  common  germs  or  bacteria,  one  hundred  times 


GERMS:  GOOD  AND  BAD.  143 

as  great  as  the  population  of  London.  Graphic  as  is  this 
estimate,  the  idea  of  the  actual  size  of  the  individual 
germs  remains  simply  unattainable.  It  is  this  dimi- 
nutive size  compared  with  the  great  results  in  the  way 
of  disease  certain  of  these  germs  may  and  do  produce, 
which  is  more  than  sufficient  to  appal  us. 

Think  for  a  moment  of  that  fatal  lt  wool-sorters' 
disease"  which  was  formerly  prevalent  in  Brad- 
ford. This  ailment  is  caused  by  the  entrance  into 
the  human  frame  of  a  minute  germ,  or  bacillus  (fig.  30), 
with  which  we  are,  microscopically,  perfectly  well 
acquainted.  Sown  somehow  in  the  body  through 
handling  the  wool  of  animals 
which  have  died  of  a  similar  dis- 
ease  (known  in  the  animal  as 
"splenic  fever")  this  particle  grows 
and  multiplies  as  we  have  seen, 
and  kills  mankind  through  its 
abundant  self- reproduction  into 
thousands  within  the  human 

tissues  Fig.y).— Bacillus  anthrach. 

Upon  human  life  it  would,  therefore,  seem  that 
disease-germs  work  their  will  unmolested.  Yet  this  is 
by  no  means  the  case.  Science  has,  in  truth,  been 
up  and  doing  for  years  past,  teaching  us  how  we  may 
scorch  and  destroy  these  particles,  how  we  may  limit 
their  spread,  and  how  we  may  protect  ourselves  and 
our  goods  and  chattels  against  their  attack.  We  are 
far  from  being  helpless  in  the  war  we  wage  against 
germs,  and  every  year  that  passes  over  our  heads 
proves  this  statement  true.  The  deaths  from  germ- 
produced  fevers  and  allied  ailments  show  a  steady 
decrease  year  by  year,  and  in  due  season  we  may 
reduce  such  a  death-rate  to  a  miserable  minimum  if 


144  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

the  people  could  only  be  well  trained  up  in  the  sani- 
tary ways  wherein  they  should  safely  and  readily 
walk. 

But  all  our  germs  are  not  hurtful,  as  we  have  seen, 
and  some  exercise  in  the  domain  of  Nature  a  decidedly 
useful  function.  Long  ago,  De  la  Tour  showed  the 
\vorld  that  fermentation  was  not  a  result  of  death,  but 
a  consequence  of  life.  It  was  the  result  of  the  growth 
and  multiplying  of  the  yeast-plants  in  their  appropriate 
soil.  Similarly,  we  open  our  eyes  to  the  fact  that  putre- 
faction and  decay  are  really  works  and  actions  wherein 
the  omnipresent  "germs"  are  playing  the  beneficent 
part  of  natural  scavengers.  They  are  removing  from 
the  earth's  surface  the  fragments  of  life,  and  are  pre- 
venting the  world  from  becoming  a  perennial  charnel- 
house. 

Still  further  may  you  dive  into  the  useful  ways  of 
germs,  aided  by  the  eye  of  science.  Darwin  has  told 
us  of  the  part  played  by  the  earthworm  as  an  under- 
ground farmer.  Fertility  of  ground  is  brought  about 
by  the  perpetual  turn-over  which  the  sub-soil  receives 
at  the  hands  of  the  worm.  Our  germs  probably 
accomplish  as  much  for  us  in  this  latter  direction. 
They  break  up  and  decompose  the  refuse  of  life  and 
aid  its  incorporation  with  the  soil  everywhere. 

If  the  world  might  be  much  the  better  for  the  absence 
of  certain  germs,  it  is  no  less  true  it  would  certainly 
be  rendered  much  the  worse  by  the  absence  of  others. 
If,  on  the  one  hand,  certain  germs  kill  or  wound  us, 
others,  again,  make  the  world  purer  and  sweeter  as 
the  result  of  their  work.  It  is  in  this,  as  in  so  many 
other  things,  we  are  apt  to  grumble  at  things  as  they 
are  because  we  do  not  see,  or  care  to  notice,  the 
reverse  and  kindlier  side  of  the  medal. 


XXVII. 

H  Confusing  Case* 

A  FRIEND,  grubbing  about  amid  the  awakening  life  of 
the  pools  which  summer  is  fast  ripening  into  maturity, 
brought  me,  in  a  phial  of  water,  the  other  day,  a  col- 
lection of  curiosities  which  he  demanded  I  should  name 
and  describe  for  his  edification  and  instruction.  It  is 
often  a  hard  task,  that  of  satisfying  people  who  are 
"  wanting  to  know."  They  expect  science  to  be  equal 
to  all  things  in  the  way  of  replies  to  questions  which 
are  still  the  inexplicable  problems  of  philosophers 
among  us ;  and  they  are  proportionately  disappointed 
when  the  answers  desired  are  not  forthcoming. 

My  friend's  phial  of  dirty  water,  however,  contained 
&  good  many  objects  familiar  enough  even  to  the  tyro 
in  microscopic  science.  The  life  of  his  bottle  had  been 
awoke  from  its  winter  sleep  by  one  or  two  of  those 
warm  days  of  spring  weather  wherein  we  rejoiced  a 
short  time  gone  by.  There  were  one  or  two  Amcebas 
— masses  of  protoplasm,  slowly  elbowing  their  way 
from  form  to  form  across  the  field  of  the  microscope  ; 
and  a  "  sun-animalcule"  was  likewise  busy  enough  in 
the  way  of  food-getting. 

A  mother  Cyclops  or  two,  and  a  Daphma,  both 
water-fleas  of  well-known  nature,  appeared  to  be  lively 
enough,  if  movements  in  these  animals  are  to  be  taken 


145  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

as  a  test  of  vitality ;  and  a  lively  worm  of  something 
more  than  microscopic  size  was  similarly  wriggling  in 
and  out  of  the  hollow  slide,  and  upsetting  my  cover- 
glass  in  its  attempts  to  gain  a  view  of  the  bigger 
world  beyond  the  water-drop  or  two  in  which  it  was 
contained. 

But  that  which  most  excited  the  wonder  of  my  friend 
was  a  lively  little  ball,  which  kept  perpetually  gyrating, 
as  it  were,  beneath  his  eye,  and  appeared  to  defy 
recognition  as  approaching  in  nature  to  any  known 
animal-form.  Here  the  eye  lighted  upon  a  micro- 
scopic globe,  whirling  over  and  over  in  the  water, 
and  not  exceeding  in  size  the  one-fiftieth  of  an  inch 
or  so. 

It  is  a  hollow  sphere,  studded  at  intervals  with 
green  spots  or  specks,  which  are  connected  together  by 
threads  or  processes,  imparting  a  network-like  aspect 
to  the  structure.  The  source  of  its  movements  is  not 
difficult  to  determine.  Each  of  the  green  specks  has 
attached  to  it  a  couple  of  delicate  lashes  (or  "  cilia  "), 
similar  to  those  borne  by  the  specks  on  the  margin  of 
the  globe  ;  and  by  the  vibratile  play  of  these  lashes, 
this  living  globe  is  made  to  gyrate  within  its  native 
waters.  Inside  the  globe  (Fig.  31),  we  see  other  and 
smaller  spheres.  These  are  youthful  globes,  which, 
by  the  death  and  disintegration  of  the  parent-globe, 
will  escape  into  the  water,  and  begin  life  each  on  its 
own  account. 

Close  examination  by  a  higher  power  of  the  micro- 
scope shows  us  that  each  of  these  greenish  masses 
which  dot  over  the  mass  of  our  globe  is  a  distinct 
living  particle.  It  consists  of  a  speck  of  living  matter 
(or  protoplasm)  coloured  through  its  containing  par- 
ticles of  the  green  matter  we  see  familiarly  in  plants. 


A  CONFUSING  CASE.  147 

This  matter  is  named  chlorophyll.  There  is  in  each 
green  mass  a  red  speck,  which  some  biologists  name 
the  "  eye-spot ;  "  and  in  each  of  the  living  masses  we 
see,  besides,  one  or  two  spaces  which  "  beat "  and 
contract  and  expand  as  if  they  were  rudimentary 
hearts  of  one  kind  or  another. 

Now,  if  our  globe  thus  turns  out  to  be  simply  a 
collection  of  green  particles,  each  living,  each  con- 
nected to  the  other  particles,  and  each  possessing  its 
couple  of  lashes  or  "  cilia  "  to  aid  in  propelling  the 
globe  through  the  water,  the  further  question,  "  What 
is  it  ? "  at  once  arises. 
This  was  the  inquiry  of 
my  friend,  just  as  it  was 
the  inquiry  of  many  a 
puzzled  naturalist  in 
former  days.  In  the 
days  of  Ehrenberg,  the 
organism  was  named  the 
"  Globe-animalcule."  It 
was  regarded  as  an 
animal,  or  rather  as  a 
colony  or  aggregation  of  Fig-  31.— 

animals,  and  as  such  was  classified  among  the  animal- 
cule hosts  themselves.  But  this  was  in  the  days  when 
the  botany  of  the  lowest  plants  was  an  unknown  and 
unformed  science. 

Let  us  see  whether  Ehrenberg's  epithet  can  be 
justified.  That  the  "  globe-animalcule,"  as  it  once  was 
named,  or  Voivox,  as  we  had  better  name  it  now,  has 
apparent  claims  to  be  regarded  as  an  animal,  may  no 
doubt  be  an  assertion  easy  of  proof  to  the  unsophisti- 
cated mind.  Does  not  it  move  ? — and  is  not  move- 
ment a  feature  of  animal  life  which  stands  in  contrast 


148  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

to  the  fixity  of  the  plant  ? — are  queries  at  the  mere 
mention  of  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  scientists  will 
not  repress  a  grim  sarcastic  smile.  If  you  hold  that 
it  is  an  animal  because  it  moves,  then  what  are  you 
to  say  to  the  fact  that  thousands  of  the  lowest  plants 
are  never  rooted  and  fixed  at  all  ? 

And  what,  further,  will  you  reply  to  the  observation 
that  many  true  animals  are  rooted  and  fixed  through- 
out life  ?  There  are  your  sponges,  your  anemones, 
your  corals,  your  zoophytes,  and  your  sea-squirts,  all 
of  which  are  fixed  creatures  but  true  animals,  never- 
theless. So  that  you  observe  the  mere  fact  of  motion 
does  not  prove  that  a  living  being  is  an  animal ;  and 
it  certainly  does  not  disprove  the  assertion,  contrari- 
wise, that  it  may  well  be  a  plant. 

The  volvox  before  us  is,  in  truth,  an  excellent 
illustration  of  the  difficulty  which  attends  us  when  we 
attempt  to  distinguish  animals  from  plants.  Not  that 
it  is  difficult  to  separate  higher  animals  from  higher 
plants.  There  is  no  danger  of  confusing  a  cow  with 
the  grass  it  eats ;  but,  then,  there  are  other  and  much 
lower  animals  in  the  world  than  cows,  and  many 
plants  lower  than  the  grass.  When  we  face  a  living 
being  like  our  volvox,  we  see  the  greater  difficulty 
which  arises — that  of  saying  in  which  kingdom  of 
living  nature  we  are  to  put  the  lowest  members  of  the 
world  of  life. 

Now  each  of  the  green  specks  in  the  volvox  might 
be  an  animal,  and  each  might  be  a  plant.  Because 
the  specks  are  green,  and  because  they  make  starch, 
are  facts  forming  no  barrier  to  their  being  animals  ; 
for  many  true  animals  (like  the  "  hydras  "  of  the  pools) 
manufacture  the  same  green  colouring  matter  we  find 
in  plants  ;  and  many  animals,  including  even  man  him- 


A  CONFUSING  CASE.  149 

self,  are  starch-makers.  What,  then,  to  make  a  long 
story  short,  is  this  volvox  ?  With  its  plant-like  colour, 
it  may  be  a  plant ;  with  its  motion,  and  the  structure 
of  its  living  specks,  it  may  be  a  mass  of  animals. 

I  reply,  it  is  a  colony  of  very  low  plants  massed 
together  and  living  a  kind  of  co-operative  existence. 
If  you  could  trace  out  the  special  fashion  the  volvox 
possesses  of  reproducing  its  kind,  you  would  be  able 
to  detect  many  and  close  likenesses  to  the  ways  of  the 
lowest  plants.  In  its  preparation  for,  and  production 
of,  the  bodies  which  are  to  develop  into  new  globes, 
the  volvox  is  seen  to  be  a  true  plant,  and  to  possess 
its  nearest  relatives  among  the  great  tribe  of  which 
the  seaweeds  and  many  other  familiar  forms  are 
characteristic  examples. 

The  closer  knowledge  of  science  often  dissipates  the 
mystery  surrounding  the  nature  of  living  things.  But 
even  under  the  light  of  such  knowledge  the  answer  to 
the  question,  "  Is  this  thing  or  that  (in  lower  life) 
an  animal  or  a  plant  ? "  must  appear  to  ordinary 
mortals  on  many  occasions,  as  a  confusing  case. 


XXVIII. 

ffifes, 

THIS  is  emphatically  the  heyday  and  holiday  of  the 
flies ;  and  for  the  last  half-hour  my  efforts  to  secure 
an  untroubled  siesta  have  been  frustrated  by  the  blan- 
dishments and  attentions  of  a  particularly  energetic 
member  of  that  tribe  of  insects.  Once  upon  a  time  I 
was  captivated  by  an  enthralling  account  of  the  adven- 
tures of  a  bald-headed  man  with  a  fly.  Out  of  these  in- 
congruous elements  the  author  evolved  a  most  thrilling 
recital.  The  bald-headed  man  lay  asleep — this  was  the 
prologue  to  the  drama.  Act  first  was  the  descent  of 
the  fly  on  his  head,  and  his  awakening  himself  from 
slumber  by  the  energetic  slap  which  he  gave  his  cranium 
in  the  hope  of  killing  the  intruder  and  trespasser. 

Then  began  act  second.  This  was  the  arousing  of 
vengeance.  The  bald-headed  man  procures  a  towel, 
and  lies  in  wait  for  his  enemy.  Effort  after  effort  to 
secure  his  prey  fails.  He  then  sinks  to  rest.  The 
final  act  of  the  drama  witnesses  his  waking  up  once 
again  on  the  fly's  invitation  to  combat,  conveyed  this 
time  by  tickling  the  hairless  man's  nose.  He  seizes 
his  towel  once  again  and  pursues  the  insect.  The 
towel  knocks  over  a  pair  of  costly  vases.  Then  the 
inkstand  is  knocked  over,  and  he  mops  up  the  ink  from 
his  carpet  with  his  towel.  Off  he  goes  again  in  hot 
pursuit.  He  sends  the  end  of  his  stick,  to  which 


FLIES.  151 

he  has  secured  the  towel,  through  a  pane  of  glass. 
Finally,  he  brings  down  the  chandelier  with  his  stick, 
just  as  the  fly  sweeps  victoriously  out  of  the  window, 
and  the  bald-headed  man  is  left  wiping  his  face  un- 
consciously with  the  inky  towel.  This  is  the  final 
tableau,  and,  of  course,  brings  down  the  curtain. 

Now,  there  is  much  to  be  admired  in  this  tale  of 
a  fly  ;  and  one  can  sympathise  deeply  with  the  pursuer 
of  the  insect  race.  For  an  amazing,  irritating,  temper- 
destroying  fiend  of  an  insect,  commend  me  to  the 
common  or  household  fly.  Other  insects  (which  shall 
be  nameless)  bite  you  and  cause  groaning  and  lamen- 
tation, especially  in  the  watches  of  the  night ;  others 
sting  you  with  an  honesty  of  purpose  that  leaves 
nothing  to  be  desired  ;  while  others,  again,  eat  your 
clothes  and  destroy  your  furs  wholesale.  But  they  are 
all  fairly  bearable  in  their  way.  It  is  your  wretched 
fly  which  possesses  a  gift  of  irritating  you  simply 
and  purely,  and  of  making  you  get  heated  and  vexed 
without  adequate  cause — a  property  this,  by-the-way, 
which  I  once  heard  an  ungallant  and  long-suffering 
husband  attribute  in  perfection  to  his  mother-in-law. 

The  one  consolation  about  the  fly  is  that  it  has  an 
interesting  history  both  personal  and  retrospective. 
Thus  it  is  a  member  of  a  group  of  insects  to  which 
the  learned  in  insect  lore  apply  the  name  of  Diptera — 
that  is,  the  two-winged  order.  For  the  fly  wants  the 
hinder  pair  of  wings  which  most  other  insects  possess, 
and  it  shares  this  character  in  common  with  all  true 
flies,  whereof  the  gadflies,  mosquitoes,  gnats,  and  so 
forth  are  excellent  examples.  The  hinder  pair  of 
wings,  however,  is  represented  in  the  flies  and  appears 
under  the  guise  of  a  pair  of  filaments  called  "  poisers," 

or  "halteres."      This  would  seem  to   show  that  once 
n 


152  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

upon  a  time  the  fly-race  possessed  all  four  wings. 
How  and  why  the  hinder  wings  disappeared  is  more, 
1  believe,  than  any  one  can  venture  to  say. 

As  for  flight,  it  is  tolerably  clear  the  insect  con- 
trives its  aerial  movements  with  excellent  skill.  In- 
deed, if  we  appeal  to  M.  Marey,  ot  Paris,  as  an  autho- 
rity on  animal  locomotion,  we  learn  that  our  fly,  when 
held  captive,  moves  its  wings  330  times  a  second. 
Now,  this  is  a  really  high  rate  of  speed  when  com- 


Fig.  32. — The  Common  House-fly  (enlarged). 

pared  with  the  rate  of  movement  of  the  honey-bee  at 
190  times  a  second ;  and  it  throws  the  butterfly  (only 
nine  times  a  second)  into  the  shade  altogether. 

So  also  Landois  has  studied  for  us  the  music  of 
a  fly's  wings.  Every  one  knows  the  difference  be- 
tween the  droning  and  the  sharp  "  buzz "  of  a  fly. 
Taking  the  correspondence  of  the  sounds  made  by 
the  insect  with  musical  notes,  Landois  tells  us  that 
a  fly  which  produces  the  note  F  moves  its  wings 
352  times  a  second;  a  bee  making  the  sound  of  A 


FLIES.  153 

vibrates  the  wings  440  times.  A  tired  bee  hums  on 
E,  and  vibrates  some  330  times  in  the  second.  The 
bee's  contented  hum,  when  in  quest  of  honey,  is  A. 
Thus  there  is  really  an  expression  of  the  emotions  in 
these  insects ;  and  there  is  no  better  reason,  after  all, 
why  a  fly  or  a  bee  should  not  give  vent  to  its  joy  or 
indicate  its  rage,  than  our  neighbour  the  Gaul  should 
shrug  his  shoulders  or  turn  out  the  palms  of  his  hands. 

After  a  busy  season,  the  flies  leave  the  soul  of  the 
housewife  vexed  and  angry.  She  contemplates  with 
dismay  the  fly-blown  paper,  and  the  scratched  and 
eroded  surfaces  of  her  furniture  and  books.  If  it  is 
desired  that  the  source  of  these  destructive  powers 
should  be  seen,  you  have  only  to  put  the  fly's  tongue 
under  a  low  power  of  the  microscope.  This  is  the 
organ  which,  when  at  rest,  is  bent  up  beneath  the 
insect's  head.  When  it  alights  on  the  sugar,  you  can 
see  the  fly  unfold  its  proboscis  for  predatory  purposes, 
and  scrape  the  toothsome  morsel.  The  end  of  the 
tongue  actually  unfolds  into  a  couple  of  broad  fan- 
like  leaves,  serving  at  once  as  raspers  and  suckers. 
By  means  of  this  rough  file-like  expansion  of  the 
tongue,  the  fly  works  havoc  with  delicate  surfaces, 
and  it  is  doubtless  this  proboscis  which  annoys  and 
tickles  us  when  the  insect  pays  those  personal  atten- 
tions to  which  allusion  has  been  made.  The  fact  of  the 
tongue  being  an  unruly  member  and  a  source  of  annoy- 
ance finds  a  new  interpretation  in  the  case  of  the  fly. 

Like  the  butterflies  and  beetles,  the  fly  passes  in 
its  development  through  what  zoologists  call  a  perfect 
metamorphosis.  In  other  words,  it  begins  life  as  a  grub 
or  caterpillar — the  baby  flies  are  scornfully  denominated 
"  maggots  " — then  it  becomes  a  pupa  or  chrysalis,  and 
finally  emerges  into  the  full-grown  and  winged  insect. 


154  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

As  a  maggot  it  is  active,  while  as  a  chrysalis  it  is 
quiescent — this,  in  short,  is  the  characteristic  feature 
of  the  perfect  development. 

There  is,  however,  much  more  in  fly-development 
than  meets  the  eye  of  the  popular  naturalist.  Ordi- 
narily, or  at  least  in  many  insects,  the  organs  and  parts 
of  the  grub  are  gradually  transformed  into  those  of  the 
adult.  Long  ago,  Newport  taught  us  how  the  cater- 
pillar's long  and  diffused  nerve-chain  grew  into  the 
much  more  concentrated  nervous  system  of  the  butter- 
fly. The  flies,  however,  seem  to  illustrate  a  metamor- 
phosis which  is  much  more  complete  and  sweeping 
than  that  just  indicated.  When  the  maggot,  white 
and  legless,  leaves  the  egg  of  the  mother-fly,  there  are 
found  within  its  body  certain  curious  masses,  arranged 
with  tolerable  regularity,  and  called  imagined  discs.  So 
long  as  the  maggot  stage  continues,  these  discs  remain 
in  statu  quo.  The  grub  eats  voraciously,  changes  its 
skin  to  accommodate  the  increasing  growth  of  its  body, 
and  finally,  after  thus  laying  up  a  store  of  material  in 
which  development  is  to  work  its  own  sweet  will,  it 
becomes  the  chrysalis. 

Then  these  discs  come  to  the  front  of  things.  They 
enlarge,  and  out  of  their  substance  are  formed  legs, 
wings,  head,  proboscis,  and,  in  short,  the  belongings 
of  the  adult  fly.  The  organs  which  served  the  maggot 
disappear  and  dissolve  away,  and  only  the  tail  of  the 
grub  seems  to  take  part  in  the  formation  of  that  of  the 
full-grown  insect.  This  study  makes  it  clear  once  again 
that  the  fly  is  an  insect  with  a  history.  It  has  come 
to  be  the  fly  of  to-day,  as  the  result  of  a  very  ancient 
process  of  evolution ;  and  although  this  fact  may  not 
reconcile  us  to  its  worrying  habits,  it  may  perchance 
invest  our  enemy  with  a  new  interest  in  our  eyes. 


XXIX. 

H  (Boofc  Starve. 

THERE  is  a  bit  of  popular  physiology  and  folk-medicine 
which  asserts  that  "  a  good  starve "  is  a  simple  and 
effective  means  of  treating  not  a  few  of  the  ailments  to 
which  flesh  is  heir.  One  very  admirable  feature  of  this 
remedy,  and  one  which  is  certain  to  commend  itself  to 
many  frugal  minds,  is  its  entirely  cheap  and  inexpen- 
sive nature.  I  suspect  that,  like  most  really  good  and 
simple  means  of  treating  disease,  however,  the  "good 
starve "  will  not  attract  devotees  by  reason  of  this 
very  quality- of  cheapness,  and  because  it  is,  perchance, 
a  relatively  unpleasant  process  when  all  is  said  and 
done. 

Nature  abhors  a  vacuum — and,  I  will  add,  especially 
human  nature.  Starvation,  or,  to  put  it  more  mildly, 
abstinence  from  food  for  any  length  of  time,  is  not  an 
agreeable  phase  of  life.  If  there  is  (as  there  should  be) 
a  fair  amount  of  enjoyment  in  the  healthy  appreciation 
of  the  good  things  of  this  life,  it  is  tolerably  certain 
we  cannot  be  justly  regarded  either  as  Philistines  or 
Malignants,  because  we  hear  with  agreeable  delight 
the  joyful  sound  of  the  dinner  bell  or  gong. 

But  just  as  there  is  a  philosophy  of  dining — and 
moreover  a  philosophy  of  dining  well — so  it  may  turn 
out  that  "  a  good  starve  "  has  likewise  an  intellectual 


156  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

backing.  It  will  never  be  a  popular  practice  :  of  that 
let  us  all  rest  well  assured.  Like  many  other  excellent 
things  in  the  way  of  remedies — to  wit,  Gregory's  far- 
famed  powder,  or  even  the  bland  and  emollient  oil  of 
cod  itself — the  virtues  of  starvation  are  not  to  be 
measured  by  its  purely  physical  characteristics. 

One  may  rest  in  a  tolerable  sense  of  logical  security 
after  reiterating  the  assertion  that  the  vast  majority  of 
us  eat  far  too  much.  Amid  the  crowd  of  fads  and 
"  isms "  with  which  we  are  deluged  by  would-be  re- 
formers in  these  latter  days,  there  is  scarcely  a  solitary 
voice  which  lifts  up  its  accents  to  declare  that  we  are 
given  to  gluttony  in  a  physiological  sense,  or  to  extol 
the  merits  of  frugal  fare.  Yet  Nature  herself  preaches 
us  many  a  sermon  on  that  same  text.  When  we  are 
indisposed  she  does  away  with  the  appetite  as  sharply 
as  the  Water  Company  cuts  off  the  supply  when  the 
householder  is  far  behind  with  his  rate.  The  starve 
we  feel  to  be  necessary  under  such  circumstances,  is 
really  but  another  name  for  the  physiological  rest  of 
the  organs  we  have  overtaxed. 

Persons  "  with  a  liver,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  know 
only  too  well  how,  under  a  starvation  regime,  they 
recover  their  tone ;  and  your  gouty  man,  and  his 
plethoric  neighbour,  are  each  similarly  made  to  see  that 
life  is  worth  living  after  experiencing  the  benefits  of  a 
starve,  and  after  giving  the  internal  mechanism  a 
necessary  rest.  Then,  again,  certain  of  our  neighbours 
exemplify  starvation,  as  related  (under  the  name  of 
"  Fasts  ")  to  religious  observances.  The  Jewish  fasts 
are  well-known  institutions,  and  there  are  those  who 
do  not  hesitate  to  attribute  much  of  the  energy  and 
vitality  of  that  ancient  people  to  the  regular  exercise 
of  abstinence  from  food  at  fixed  periods.  I  have 


A  GOOD  STARVE.  157 

heard  a  High  Church  clergyman  enunciate  the  same 
opinion  as  an  argument  in  favour  of  Lenten  fasting ; 
and  (as  a  physiologist),  I  confess  I  am  in  thorough 
agreement  with  such  opinions. 

If  so  much  socially  may  be  said  for  a  good  starve 
now  and  then  as  a  kind  of  hygienic  rite,  the  question 
arises,  What  is  the  scientific  side  of  abstinence  from 
food  ?  There  can,  of  course,  be  no  such  thing  pos- 
sible as  total  abstinence  from  "  food  "  for  any  length 
of  time  without  a  fatal  result  accruing.  By  food, 
however,  let  us  see  what  one  means.  There  is,  first 
of  all,  air-food,  the  oxygen  we  breathe  into  our  lungs ; 
then  comes  water,  whereof  two-thirds  of  our  bodies  by 
weight  are  composed.  Next  we  want  so  much  nitro- 
genous food ;  and  so  much  starch  and  sugar  and  fat 
and  oil  per  day,  all  of  which  things  are  non-nitro- 
genous in  character. 

Finally,  we  must  throw  in  an  ounce  or  two  per  diem 
of  the  necessary  minerals — iron  for  blood,  lime  for 
bones,  phosphorus  for  nerve  and  brain,  along  with 
soda  and  potash  and  other  inorganic  substances. 
Now,  it  is  very  evident  that  as  regards  item  the  first, 
namely,  our  oxygen,  we  cannot  dispense  with  that 
commodity  at  all.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the 
continuance  of  life,  and  fortunately  it  costs  us  nothing, 
and  is  not  even  included  among  the  possible  subjects 
of  taxation  by  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  enter- 
prising as  he  may  be. 

As  regards  the  nitrogenous  foods,  the  albumen  and 
gelatine,  and  gluten  and  so  forth,  and  the  starches, 
sugars,  and  fats,  and  oils,  we  can  get  on  fairly  well 
without  them  for  several  days  at  least.  At  a  pinch 
we  might  want  them,  without  of  necessity  landing  in 
the  undertaker's  hands,  for  a  longer  period  still.  The 


158  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

minerals,  save,  perhaps,  our  salt,  we  usually  get 
mixed  up  with  our  other  foods.  But  as  for  water — 
well,  it  is  exactly  the  one  food  without  which  (leaving 
air  out  of  consideration)  we  cannot  attempt  to  exist  for 
any  period  worth  naming.  The  evidence  on  which  this 
assertion  is  based  is  very  complete  in  its  character. 

Not  merely  do  we  know  of  shipwrecked  sailors  and 
entombed  miners  subsisting  on  water  alone  for  some- 
what extensive  periods,  and  feeling  relatively  well 
when  rescued,  but  we  know  of  cases  of  harmless 
lunatics  suffering  from  delusions  who  have  starved 
themselves  in  secret,  and  who  have  lived  on  water 
solely  for  thirty,  forty,  or  even  fifty  days.  One  may 
safely  assert  that  all  living  nature  participates  in  this 
demand  for  water  as  the  essential  food,  leaving  the 
all-surrounding  air  out  of  count  for  the  moment.  For, 
to  the  plants  in  the  window,  dryness  is  a  fatal  condi- 
tion ;  and  even  the  biggest  tree  succumbs  when  a  long 
drought  sets  in,  and  no  moisture  gains  access  to  its 
tissues.  There  may  be  abstinence,  total  or  otherwise, 
from  all  other  kinds  of  food  (save  air),  but  without 
water  we  are  literally  "  nowhere,"  as  the  schoolboy 
puts  it.  It  is  the  staff  of  life  much  more  truly  than 
the  product  of  the  baker's  shop.  In  this  light,  then, 
water  takes  the  first  rank  as  a  food ;  it  is  certainly 
the  sheet-anchor  of  a  "  good  starve." 

If  one  endeavours  to  subsist  without  food  and 
water,  life  will  come  to  an  end,  say,  in  from  seven  to 
eight  days.  But  if  one  elected  to  live  on  water  (and 
air),  and  obtained  a  plentiful  supply  of  both  com- 
modities, he  might  live  on,  as  we  have  seen,  starved 
and  meagre,  and  growing  anything  but  "•beautifully 
less "  hour  by  hour,  for  thirty,  forty,  or  even  fifty 
days.  This  much  was  known  long  before  the  Tanners, 


A  GOOD  STARVE.  159 

the  Succis,  and  others  of  that  ilk  began  to  exhibit 
themselves  as  paying  examples  of  the  "  Great  Starve." 

The  reason  why  water  of  all  foods  will  preserve 
life  in  the  absence  of  every  other  form  of  nutriment 
has  been  already  given.  We  are  composed  largely 
of  water ;  it  enters  into  every  tissue ;  and  it  is  needed 
for  the  performance  of  every  act  of  life.  Hence  water 
asserting  its  importance  thuswise  in  the  body,  comes, 
with  air,  to  rank  as  the  paramount  food.  Clearly, 
then,  our  good  starve  must  mean  and  imply  plenty  of 
water  and  plenty  of  air.  The  other  foods  may  for  a 
time  vanish  away.  The  water  will  not  supply  the 
waste  of  the  body,  nor  will  it  prevent  the  body 
feeding  upon  itself;  but  it  will  keep  us  going  at  low 
pressure,  and  in  the  absence  of  all  food,  ordinarily 
so  called,  will  sustain  us  for  many  days. 

Water,  then,  is  our  great  hope  and  succour  in  the 
"good  starve;"  and  it  may  be  well  to  bear  this  fact 
in  mind  if  we  contemplate  at  any  time  enjoying  the 
unusual  luxury  of  experiencing  a  relief  from  the  onerous 
duty  of  finding  out  something  fresh  for  the  menu. 


XXX. 

©tber  Senses  tban  ©urs, 

MY  Dalmatian  dog,  "  Spotty,"  has  been  considerably 
agitated  in  mind  this  morning  over  the  appearance  of 
a  strange  cat  in  my  back  garden.  Albeit  he  is  not  on 
particularly  friendly  terms  with  the  two  feline  members 
of  the  household,  "  Spotty"  yet  contrives  to  bear  and 
forbear  where  the  cats  proper  to  his  home  are  con- 
cerned. The  mother-cat  is  somewhat  given  to  a  spite- 
fulness  of  disposition  towards  her  Dalmatian  co-tenant, 
and  her  black  son,  the  "  Professor,"  treats  the  dog 
with  high-handed  contempt.  But,  as  things  are,  life 
rubs  on  easily  enough  where  the  canine  and  feline 
units  are  concerned. 

A  stray  cat,  however,  appearing  within  his  own  and 
special  domain,  causes  "  Spotty  "  a  world  of  anxiety. 
He  longs  to  be  up  and  doing  in  the  way  of  battle,  and 
his  voice  rings  loud  and  deep  when,  secure  on  the 
broken  glass-bottles  of  the  garden-wall,  the  strange 
cat  contemplates  his  attitude  and  hears  his  loud  voci- 
ferations with  equanimity,  or  with  something  which 
goes  as  nearly  as  is  possible  to  expressing  a  feline 
smile  of  contempt. 

"  Spotty's "  anxieties,  however,  are  not  limited  to 
this  barking  at  the  cats  which  perpetually  leap  to  and 
fro  "  over  the  garden  wall."  When  not  a  cat  is  to  be 


OTHER  SENSES  THAN  OURS.  161 

beheld,  and  when  there  is  not  a  vestige  of  a  feline 
within  a  mile  of  him,  I  can  tell  of  his  latent  animosity 
to  the  cat-tribe  being  aroused  by  his  sniffing  the 
ground,  by  his  low  growls  and  sharp  yelps,  and  by 
the  bristling  of  his  back  hair  as  his  vivid  imagination 
depicts  before  his  mind's  eye  the  possibility  of  the  fray. 

This  sniffing  and  smelling  of  dogs  which  hunt  their 
prey  like  my  Dalmatian  by  aid  of  their  noses,  opens 
up  a  curious  study  in  animal  senses,  and  one  which 
leads  us  towards  many  unsolved  problems  of  life  and 
brain.  In  the  first  place,  what  is  it  that  my  dog  per- 
ceives ?  What  is  it  that  arouses  his  brain  and  muscle, 
through  the  medium  of  his  sense  of  smell  ?  A  cat 
passes  with  a  light  tread  over  the  ground.  Allow,  if 
we  will,  that  there  is  a  characteristic  odour  pertain- 
ing to  the  cat-body — and  to  all  other  carnivorous 
animals,  indeed — and  the  problem  does  not  become 
simplified  even  after  such  an  admission.  What  is  there 
in  the  odour  which '  remains  to  mark  to  my  dog's  in- 
telligence and  perception  each  light  footfall  of  the  cat 
in  the  back  garden  ?  What  is  the  nature  of  the  scent 
of  the  hunter  which  the  wind  carries  to  the  wary  deer, 
or  to  the  lion  or  rhinoceros  itself?  What  is  the  exact 
cause  of  the  power  which  enables  the  vulture  to  scent 
the  prey  from  afar  off,  or  which  tells  the  eagles  where 
the  carcase  lies  for  attack  ? 

Let  us  try  to  argue  this  matter  out  as  best  we  may. 
The  senses  of  an  animal  are  its  "  gateways  of  know- 
ledge." The  eye  sees  not,  neither  does  the  ear  hear. 
They  are  merely  instruments — "  receiving  offices,"  to 
put  it  plainly — which  transmit  to  the  brain  the  impres- 
sions of  the  outer  world,  which  modify,  parcel  out,  and 
assort  these  impressions,  and  adapt  them  for  being 
understood  and  appreciated  by  the  seeing-centres  and 


162  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

hearing-centres  of  the  organ  of  mind.  So  much  is 
matter  of  ordinary  physiological  teaching.  And  what 
of  the  impressions  which  fall  upon  eye  and  ear,  nose 
and  tongue,  and  skin  ? 

Everything  in  the  way  of  sense,  as  Goethe  put  it 
long  ago,  resolves  itself  into  a  matter  of  touch.  Every 
other  sense  is  a  modification  of  touch ;  or,  as  it  was 
originally  put,  "  touch  is  the  mother  of  all  the  senses." 
When  we  touch  any  object,  that,  of  course,  is  ordinary 
sensation,  pure  and  simple.  It  is  the  contact  of  the 
nerve-ends  with  the  outer  world,  with  which  our 
nervous  system  brings  us  into  relation.  When  we 
taste  there  is  contact — that  is  to  say,  "  touch  " — of 
the  substance  to  be  tasted  with  the  nerves  of  tongue 
and -palate.  When  we  smell  there  must  be  contact  of 
nerve-ends  again,  with  the  odorous  particles.  When 
we  hear  and  see,  there  is  the  impinging  of  waves  of 
sound  and  of  waves  of  light  upon  ear-drum  and  retina 
(the  nerve-network  of  the  eye)  respectively. 

Ethereal  and  delicate  must  ear-touch  and  eye-touch 
be,  yet  it  is  a  contact  of  something  material  from  the 
outside  world  with  something  material  in  eye  and  ear 
nevertheless.  All  our  sensations  and  impressions,  then, 
are  reduced  to  the  level  of  touch.  It  is  only  a  ques- 
tion of  the  degree  of  fineness  of  the  touch  which  awaits 
the  comprehension  of  science  whenever  senses  and 
their  methods  are  discussed  at  all. 

But  certain  clear  facts  lead  us  nigh  to  the  compre- 
hension of  "  Spotty,"  and  his  perception  of  cat  pre- 
sence, as  well  as  to  the  understanding  of  the  powers 
of  the  bloodhound  in  tracking  the  criminal,  or  of  those 
of  the  St.  Bernard  in  finding  the  frozen  man  beneath 
the  snow. 

It  is  provable,  first  of  all,  that  any  form  of  matter 


OTHER  SENSES  THAN  OURS.  163 

which  possesses  a  smell  at  all,  exhibits  that  property 
in  virtue  of  its  power  of  giving  off  fine  particles  of  its 
substance.  It  is  similarly  clear  that  the  odour  of  any 
body  will  be  the  more  powerful  according  as  its  par- 
ticles are  freely  given  off.  Take  the  case  of  musk, 
for  instance.  We  weigh  a  grain  of  musk  in  a  chemical 
balance  which  turns  the  scale  with  the  merest  fraction 
of  a  grain.  Thuswise,  we  secure  exact  weight,  and 
we  place  our  grain  weight  of  musk  in  a  room.  For 
years,  our  grain  of  musk  will  appreciably  scent  that 
apartment.  During  all  this  period  it  must,  therefore, 
have  been  giving  off  its  particles  to  the  air ;  yet,  mark 
the  astounding  result — if  we  weigh  it  years  afterwards, 
we  shall  find  it  show  exactly  the  weight  it  originally 
possessed. 

Plainly,  then,  the  particles  given  off  from  the  musk 
in  such  numbers  must  have  been  of  such  microscopic 
size  as  to  leave  practically  unaffected  the  bulk  of  the 
substance.  Our  minds  fail  to  grasp  any  idea  of  the 
size  of  such  particles.  Sir  William  Thomson's  esti- 
mate of  the  size  of  atoms  may  find  a  parallel  in  the 
particles  of  our  musk  ;  yet,  small  as  these  particles 
are,  you  observe  they  excite  the  sense  of  smell,  and 
become  appreciated  by  our  brain  as  those  of  a  well- 
known  perfume.  It  may  interest  us  to  know  that 
Sir  William  Thomson  makes  the  ultimate  atoms  of 
matter  each  measure,  in  diameter,  the  one-fifty-millionth 
part  of  an  inch. 

As  far  as  sight  is  concerned,  I  believe  Helmholtz 
gives  a  particle  which  is  the  eighty-thousandth  part 
of  an  inch  in  diameter,  as  the  smallest  which  can  be 
distinctly  made  out  by  the  eyes  in  association  with 
other  particles.  Such  estimates  of  what  matter  is, 
microscopically  regarded,  may  serve  to  teach  us  some- 


164  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

thing  of  the  acute  nature  of  the  sense  of  smell  in  man, 
relatively  to  our  particles  of  musk. 

But  that  the  dog's  sense  of  smell  is  infinitely  more 
delicate  than  our  own  is  evident.  Your  collie  tracks 
out  your  footsteps  by  the  odour  they  have  given  off 
amidst  a  dense  crowd  of  people.  "  Spotty"  recognises 
the  tread  of  the  cat  by  reason  of  the  fine  particles 
which  the  feline  impression  has  left  behind  it,  and 
which  appeal  to  his  nerves  of  smell  while  all  unrecog- 
nised by  us.  The  bloodhound,  in  the  same  way,  with 
keen  scent,  traces  out  the  resemblance  in  smell  between 
the  footsteps  of  the  criminal  and  those  of  the  garment 
which  belonged  to  the  evildoer. 

The  dog's  brain  shows  large  lobes  of  smell,  and  big 
nerves  emanating  therefrom.  His  nervous  apparatus 
in  this  respect  makes  for  him  a  world  of  odours  all 
unappreciated  by  his  master.  As  there  are  many  other 
worlds  than  our  own  whirling  round  in  the  blue  ether, 
so  in  truth,  in  lower  life,  there  are  many  other  more 
powerful  and  more  acute  senses  than  ours. 


XXXI. 

Sometbins  IRew  about  tbe  i£at 

IF  one  were  asked  to  select  any  portion  of  man's 
wonderful  frame  which  is  more  wondrous  and  more 
complex  than  another,  I  should  advise  the  candidate 
for  honours  in  elementary  anatomy  to  choose  the  ear. 
For,  unquestionably,  the  ear  is  more  complex  than  the 
eye — probably  more  intricate,  indeed,  than  any  other 
of  our  sense-organs.  To  begin  with,  there  is  the 
outer  ear,  which  is  in  itself  worth  some  study,  as 
Darwin  has  shown  us,  in  respect  of  its  conformation. 
The  passage  or  canal  of  the  ear"  (fig.  33,  2)  passes 
inwards,  and  is  blocked,  like  a  cul  de  sac,  by  the  drum- 
membrane  or  tympanum.  This  membrane  receives  the 
waves  of  sound  and  transmits  these  vibrations  to  the 
internal  ear,  which  is  enclosed  within  the  temporal 
bone.  Now,  it  is  this  internal  ear  which  is  of  such 
marvellous  structure  and  of  such  intricacy.  Let  us 
try  to  think  of  its  various  parts  for  a  moment  or  two. 
On  the  inner  side  of  the  "  drum  "  (fig.  33,  2')  a  tube 
(called  the  "  Eustachian  tube"  (fig.  33,  4),  after  an 
old  anatomist)  leads  into  the  throat.  This  arrange- 
ment evidently  serves  to  ensure  equality  of  air  pressure 
on  each  side  of  the  drum,  whatever  else  may  be  its  use. 
Between  the  brain  and  the  drum  is  a  bony  partition, 
bearing  two  apertures.  One  of  these  is  oval  in  shape, 


1 66  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

and  the  other  of  rounded  outline.  The  next  part  of 
the  ear  consists  of  a  chain  of  three  small  bones  or 
"ossicles"  (see  between  3  and  6,  fig.  33),  which  lie 
across  the  drum  in  such  fashion  that  all  vibrations  of 
that  membrane  must,  of  necessity,  be  communicated 
to  the  bones.  One  bone  is  like  a  hammer  in  shape, 


Fig-  33- — View  of  the  parts  of  the  ear  from  the  left  side.  i,  outer  ear  ; 
2,  external  opening  and  ear  passage ;  2',  drum-membrane  ;  3,  cavity  of  the 
tympanum ;  between  3  and  6,  the  chain  of  small  bones  ;  4,  Eustachian  tube  ; 
5,  facial  and  auditory  nerves ;  6,  internal  ear ;  b,  internal  carotid  artery  ; 
d,  facial  nerve  ;  a,  c,  e,  f,  portions  of  bone. 

the  second  like  an  anvil,  and  the  third  like  a  stirrup. 
The  flattened  plate  of  the  stirrup-bone  is  placed  on 
the  oval  opening  in  the  bony  partition  already  named. 
The  next  part  of  the  ear  is  the  labyrinth,  which  con- 
tains fluid,  and  which  receives  the  ends  of  the  nerves 
of  hearing  whose  mission  it  is  to  carry  the  messages 
they  receive  from  the  outer  world  to  the  brain. 

The  labyrinth  itself  is  composed  of  two  parts.      Of 


SOMETHING  NEW  ABOUT  THE  EAR.          167 

these,  the  first  is  the  cochlea  (fig.  34,  coc.),  which  .re- 
sembles the  shell  of  the  snail  somewhat  in  appear- 
ance ;  while  the  second  is  constituted  by  three  curious 
semicircular  canals  (S  C).  Inside  the  cochlea  is  a  very 
wonderful  structure,  called,  after  its  discoverer,  the 
organ  of  Corti.  This  is  really  a  microscopical  sound- 
ing-board, or  something  more  complex  still.  It  con- 
sists of  about  4000  minute  rods  or  arches,  which  are 
graduated  in  length  and  height  as  we  pass  from  the 
top  to  the  bottom  of  the  snail-shell.  Each  arch  or 
rod  vibrates  in  unison  with  a  particular  sound-wave, 
and  from  their  action  we  are  supposed  to  gain  notions 
of  tone.  Helmholtz  tells  us  that  the  rods  of  Corti 
correspond  to  the  seven  octaves  which  are  in  common 
use ;  and  this  fact,  with  others,  seems  to  teach  us  that, 
as  a  tone-indicator,  the  organ  of  Corti  plays  its  part 
very  well  by  us  in  our  appreciation  of  sounds  and 
their  pitch. 

Of  the  semicircular  canals  of  the  ear  and  their  uses 
or  duties,  we  have  hitherto  not  been  quite  so  well  in- 
formed. Of  yore,  it  was  believed  that  they  gave  us  a 
power  of  estimating  the  direction  of  sounds,  and,  until 
lately,  we  had  to  be  content  with  this  assertion.  Now, 
however,  we  have  come  into  possession-  of  fresh  facts 
regarding  these  canals  and  their  uses,  and  this  brief 
recital  of  the  anatomy  of  the  ear  and  its  parts  has  been 
intended  by  me  simply  as  an  introduction  to  a  little  bit 
of  tolerably  recent  science — or  rather  of  scientific  dis- 
covery now  elevated  into  the  rank  of  accepted  fact.  As 
early  as  1824,  Flourens,  the  great  physiologist,  in  ex- 
perimenting upon  these  canals — which,  by  the  way,  are 
placed  in  three  planes  at  right  angles  to  one  another 
— suggested  that  they  might  prove  to  be  the  organs  of 
a  sense  of  novel  and  hitherto  unknown  nature ;  and 

12 


168  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Professors  Crum  Brown  and  Mach  have  succeeded  in 
confirming  this  opinion,  and,  what  is  more  to  the 
point,  in  elevating  it  into  the  region  of  certified  facts. 
As  the  former  scientist  lately  remarked  in  the 
course  of  a  public  lecture,  we  really  possess  little  or 
no  means  of  judging  of  motion.  We  move  through 
space  in  this  old  world  of  ours  at  the  rate  of  68,000 
miles  per  hour,  yet  we  are  all  unconscious  of  the  move- 
ment. The  rapid,  even  motion  of  a  train  may  be  really 


sc 


Coc 


Fig,  34.— The  Inner  Ear. 
Coc.,  Cochlea  ;  V,  vestibule  ;  S  C,  semicircular  canals,  laid  open. 

unperceived,  and  of  many  other  circumstances  relating 
to  movement  ihe  like  remark  holds  good.  Yet,  any 
deviation  of  motion  from  the  straight  line  is  at  once 
perceived — how  or  why  is  the  puzzle  ;  but  at  least  we 
are  conscious  of  the  transition,  say,  to  a  curve  or  to  a 
steep  gradient. 

It  is  the  same,  as  has  well  been  pointed  out,  with 
the  ascent  in  a  lift  or  in  a  balloon.  At  first  we  seem 
to  be  going  down,  but  midway  in  the  lift  we  become 
unconscious  of  the  movement,  until  the  apparatus 


SOMETHING  NEW  ABOUT  THE  EAR.          169 

comes  to  a  stop.  Experiment  helps  us  here.  A  re- 
volving table  is  constructed  as  in  Mach's  experiments, 
and  this  is  placed  in  a  hut  on  whose  paper-blinded 
windows  no  changing  lights  or  shadows  are  allowed  to 
impinge  :  or  the  subject  may  be  simply  blindfolded. 

Lying  on  this  table  on  his  side  and  comfortably 
resting  with  his  head  on  a  pillow,  the  person  is  whirled 
rapidly  round  by  the  rotation  of  the  table.  At  first 
he  is  conscious  of  the  motion,  but  in  a  moment  this 
sensation  disappears,  and,  if  the  table  whirls  on  at  a 
given  steady  pace,  all  sensation  of  movement  continues 
to  be  absent.  Let  the  rate  of  rotation,  however,  be 
altered,  or  let  the  table  come  to  a  standstill,  and 
the  consciousness  of  motion  once  more  wakens  into 
activity.  Some  means  or  other  we  must  and  do 
possess,  therefore,  for  enabling  us  to  determine  this 
alteration  of  speed. 

As  our  friend  lies  on  the  table  placidly  on  one  side, 
consciousness  of  motion  is  absent.  When,  however, 
the  subject  is  placed  on  his  back,  or  when  he  turns  of 
his  own  accord  suddenly,  he  feels  as  though  the  table 
had  stood  straight  up,  and  as  if  he  were  being  shot 
headlong  into  some  vast  abyss.  Here,  it  is  evident, 
consciousness  and  reason  itself,  of  which  conscious- 
ness is  the  servant  and  minister,  are  evidently  much 
at  fault ;  for  the  person  is  lying  flat  and  safe  on  his 
back,  after  all. 

Next  comes  a  little  hint  from  that  experimenter  on 
our  bodies  we  name  "  disease."  There  is  an  ailment 
called  "  Meniere's  disease,"  which,  first  described  in 
1 86 1,  shows  as  its  symptoms  giddiness,  a  staggering 
walk,  with  a  tendency  to  fall  on  one  side,  and  deaf- 
ness on  one  or  both  sides  of  the  head.  Examination 
of  the  ear  in  such  cases  seems  to  show  that  the  seat 


170  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

of  the  ailment  resides  in  the  semicircular  canals  we 
have  been  discussing.  A  study  of  disease,  therefore, 
tends  to  confirm  what  experiment  suggests  ;  and  the 
conclusion  we  arrive  at  is  that  the  canals  in  question, 
formerly  regarded  as  part  and  parcel  of  the  hearing- 
sense,  are  really  the  organs  of  a  new  sense — that  of 
motion.  They  give  us  information  about  the  nature 
of  the  rotations  of  the  head,  and  it  is  quite  possible 
their  sphere  of  usefulness  extends  even  beyond  this 
limit. 

We  see  in  these  curious  canals  tubes  which  contain 
fluid  —  a  condition  suggestive  enough,  in  a  common 
way,  of  an  apparatus  to  record  changes  of  level. 
This  fluid  acts  against  delicate  hairs  when  rotation 
occurs,  and  probably  in  this  way  communicates  to  the 
nerves  of  the  canals  an  impulse  which,  in  the  brain, 
becomes  translated  into  a  sensation  of  motion.  The 
turning  of  the  head  to  right  and  left  seems  a  small 
thing  indeed,  viewed  from  the  ordinary  standpoint. 
But  if  what  has  here  been  recorded  is  correct,  it  is 
obvious  our  knowledge  of  how  far  and  in  what  direction 
we  have  made  that  movement  is  due  to  these  curious 
canals  of  the  ear.  They  are  organs  of  sense  which 
minister  to  our  safe  conduct  as  we  move  through  space, 
and  as  we  pass  sorrowing  or  rejoicing  through  the 
world's  pastures. 


XXXII. 

iRotse. 

I  WONDER  if  it  has  ever  occurred  to  any  of  my  readers 
that  this  "fine  old  world  of  ours"  would  be  a  very 
much  improved  planet  if  its  noises  were  reduced  to  a 
minimum,  or,  mayhap,  abolished  altogether.  Person- 
ally, I  have  often  been  given  to  lament  the  noise  and 
clamour  of  life  ;  and  the  topic  of  noise,  in  relation  to 
our  peace,  comfort,  and  health,  has  been  forced  upon 
my  attention  of  late  in  more  ways  than  one.  A  recent 
Continental  tour  has  impressed  me  very  forcibly  with 
the  fact  that  hotel-keepers  might  do  a  worse  thing  (in 
the  way  of  business)  than  advertise  (and  ensure)  that 
their  caravanserais  are  quiet  and  free  from  the  clamour 
and  din  which  beset  these  establishments  as  a  rule. 

What  is  true  of  foreign  hotels  is  equally  true  of 
English  ones,  and,  one  may  add,  of  not  a  few  of  our 
homes  as  well.  We  really  suffer  from  noise  much 
more  acutely  and  severely  than  we  suppose.  Later 
on,  I  will  recur  to  the  physiological  side  of  this  social 
nuisance,  but  it  is  easy  enough  to  indict  it,  on  plain 
grounds,  in  the  first  instance.  At  Scheveningen,  for 
instance,  I  inhabited  a  room  which,  unfortunately  for 
me,  looked  out  on  the  street  that  leads  from  the  town 
to  the  beach.  When  the  fishing-boats  arrive,  carts 
trundle  up  and  down  this  street  all  night  long.  You 


172  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE 

dropped  off  to  sleep,  but  were  soon  awoke  by  the  roll 
and  thunder  of  the  carts  over  the  stones.  Then  suc- 
ceeded a  pause  of,  say,  fifteen  minutes,  just  sufficient 
to  allow  you  to  fall  off  to  sleep  again. 

Out  of  this  slumber  you  were  awoke  by  the  next 
cart ;  and  so  on,  this  wretched  succession  of  noise  and 
peace  persisted  for  at  least  six  hours.  Commend  me 
to  a  night  which  is  disturbed  at  regular  intervals  for 
causing  one  to  rise  ill-tempered  and  haggard  in  the 
morning.  After  two  nights  of  this  treatment  one 
began  to  appreciate  the  infernal  ingenuity  of  the 
Chinese  torture,  which  consists  in  waking  a  man 
every  five  or  ten  minutes  for  days  and  nights  on  end. 

Nor  was  this  all.  A  big,  brawny  Dutchman,  wearing 
Wellington  boots,  was  in  the  habit  of  strolling  upstairs 
to  bed  about  midnight.  When  one  was  in  the  "  beauty- 
sleep,"  this  adipose  Hollander  would  first  of  all  half- 
wake  me  with  his  Jumbo-like  tramp  upstairs.  Then 
when  he  got  overhead,  he  slammed  his  door  with  a 
noise  fit  to  wake  the  Seven  Sleepers  ;  and  thereafter 
began  a  series  of  pedestrian  exercises  in  his  bed- 
room, ending  with  a  perfect  salvo  of  artillery  made  by 
casting  off  his  Wellington  boots,  flinging  them  outside 
his  door  half-way  along  the  passage,  and  slamming  the 
door  once  again  as  a  grand  finale  to  his  preparations 
for  slumber. 

This  is  a  grievance  one  has  to  submit  to  in  Eng- 
land, of  course,  but  it  is  a  grievance  all  the  same. 
The  hotel  servants  in  the  morning  laughed  and  chat- 
tered, and  made  noise  enough  in  the  passages  ;  and, 
finally,  when  it  was  time  for  the  morning  dip  in  the 
sea,  you  felt  disposed  to  turn  over,  and  through  sheer 
exhaustion  take  not  forty  but  a  hundred  winks.  The 
fact  is,  that  both  at  home  and  abroad  we  are  not  at 


NOISE.  173 

all  particular  regarding  noise,  and  we  suffer  therefrom 
to  a  degree  that  tells  on  health,  spirits,  and  temper  in 
marked  fashion. 

Londoners  and  denizens  of  other  towns  know  what 
it  is  to  be  disturbed  by  the  lively  Chanticleer  who 
heralds  the  dawn,  or  by  dogs  which  "  bay  the  moon," 
and  often  apparently  bark  at  other  planets  as  well. 
There  is  not  the  least  attempt,  as  a  rule,  in  social  life 
to  repress  this  noise  nuisance ;  yet,  without  in  any 
sense  being  deemed  querulous  or  fidgety,  we  may 
demand  that  for  health's  sake  people  should  begin  to 
protest  as  forcibly  against  the  din  and  clamour  of  life  as 
they  do  against  the  attempt  at  extortion  which  appears 
in  their  hotel  bills  under  the  head  of  "  attendance." 

Let  us  consider  what  noise  means  scientifically  to 
the  living  body.  Every  sound  we  hear  is  first  of  all 
conveyed  to  the  drum  of  the  ear,  which,  in  its  turn, 
sets  in  motion  sundry  small  bones  that  affect  the  in- 
ternal mechanism  of  the  organ  of  hearing.  The  sound 
is  then  parcelled  out,  as  we  have  already  learned, 
into  its  component  elements  of  tone,  timbre  or  pitch, 
direction,  and  so  forth,  and  is  finally  transferred  to 
the  hearing-centre  of  the  brain.  This  centre  dis- 
charges the  final  work  of  appreciating  the  nature  of 
the  sound  and  of  converting  it  into  an  intellectual 
item  in  our  consciousness.  That  we  really  hear  with 
the  brain,  is  therefore  a  truism  of  science,  just  as  we 
see  with  the  brain,  and  taste,  smell,  and  touch  with 
the  organ  of  mind. 

Our  senses  are  the  mere  receiving  offices  of  the 
nervous  system.  It  is  the  head-office  or  brain  which 
ultimately  deals  with  all  the  messages  or  sensations 
that  reach  it  from  the  outer  world.  Now  a  noise, 
which  differs  from  a  musical  sound  in  the  irregularity 


174  GLIMPSES  OF  NA  TURE. 

of  its  vibrations,  as  may  readily  be  conceived,  affects 
not  the  ear  alone,  but  the  brain  likewise.  That  its 
effects  are  irritating  enough  on  the  ear  may  go  with- 
out saying.  That  the  brain  must  sympathise  with  its 
receiving  offices  is  obvious,  and  in  this  respect  noise 
is  -a  nervous  irritant,  the  effects  of  which  probably 
inflict  a  greater  amount  of  injury  than  is  usually  sup- 
posed. We  see  how  the  opposite  condition  to  a  real 
noise  may  affect  the  nervous  system,  in  the  effects  of 
the  monotonous  sound  which  causes  us  to  drop  off  to 
sleep.  Here  a  kind  of  mesmeric  influence  is  exerted 
by  the  sound,  just  as  a  bright  light  will  induce  sleep 
in  time.  Each  organ  of  sense  is,  in  fact,  wearied  out 
by  the  number  and  frequency  of  the  impressions  made 
upon  it,  and  a  sense  of  fatigue,  with  a  tendency  to 
slumber,  is  the  clear  result. 

The  abolition  of  noise  in  social  life,  I  am  convinced, 
would  mean  a  vast  improvement  in  the  health,  temper, 
spirits,  and  general  welfare  of  everybody.  I  do  not 
wish  to  imply  that  life  could  be  carried  on  without 
sound.  The  dead  dulness  of  a  forest  at  noonday  is 
in  itself  depressing.  Life,  meaning,  as  it  does,  action 
and  motion,  is  inseparable  from  sound,  but  sound  is 
not  necessarily  noise;  and,  while  we  object  to  the 
latter,  it  is  very  obvious  we  could  not  reasonably 
disagree  with  the  former,  including,  as  it  does,  the 
existence  of  music  itself. 

Suppose,  for  instance,  that,  in  place  of  the  hard 
causeway  of  our  streets,  wood  or  asphalt-paving 
became  universal,  what  a  wondrous  diminution  of 
noise  we  should  find.  Or,  if  the  habit  of  placing 
indiarubber  tyres  on  the  wheels  of  our  vehicles  be- 
came a  common  practice,  how  greatly  would  our  com- 
fort in  locomotion  be  increased.  If,  in  addition  to 


NOISE.  175 

these  things,  we  could  ensure  that  in  our  homes  the 
noise  of  life  were  reduced,  by  the  exercise  of  a  very 
little  care,  to  a  minimum,  I  warrant  our  health,  as 
affected  by  our  nerves,  would  be  less  subject  to 
derangement  than  is  the  case  to-day. 

It  seems  an  almost  trivial  thing  to  attach  so  much 
importance  to  noise  as  a  factor  in  making  us  both 
irritable  and  nervous;  but  we  are  perpetually  admit- 
ting the  fact  by  our  tacit  abhorrence  of  noise,  whether 
in  the  rattling  of  omnibus-windows  (a  particularly  irri- 
tating form  of  noise)  or  in  the  grumble  at  the  heavy 
feet  of  the  "  early  bird,"  who  rises  betimes,  and  takes 
care  that  everybody  within  hail  of  him  shall  become 
well  and  instantly  acquainted  with  the  fact. 

I  may  go  the  length  of  suggesting  that  our  annual 
holiday  and  country  flight  has  the  theoretical  absence 
of  noise  as  one  but  often  an  unrecognised  reason  for 
its  continuance.  We  leave  the  bustling  city  with  its 
roar  and  din  for  the  quiet  peaceful  country- life,  and 
the  absence  of  noise  is  a  condition  which  operates 
beneficially,  like  all  other  forms  of  rest,  on  our  wearied 
and  jaded  nerves.  But  woe  betide  us  if,  leaving  the 
city,  we  only  run  into  new  combinations  of  noise.  We 
begin  to  envy  Thoreau  in  Walden  Wood,  when  we 
think  of  the  peace  and  quiet  that  quaint  zoophilist 
enjoyed  as  he  made  friends  with  the  birds  and  beasts, 
and  heard  only  the  sweet  sounds  of  forest-life  in  place 
of  the  roar  of  civilisation. 


XXXIII. 

TOe  problem  of 

THE  air  has  been  tolerably  full,  of  late,  of  echoes  and 
re-echoes  of  a  very  antiquated  question — namely,  that 
which  inquires  whether  life  is  worth  living.  If  one 
may  judge  of  the  importance  of  an  inquiry  by  its  age, 
this  question  may  almost  claim  precedence  of  all  other 
matters  which  have  interested  mankind.  There  is 
something  highly  interesting  to  the  scientific  mind,  I 
think,  in  such  a  controversy ;  because,  first  of  all,  it 
seems  to  me  the  problem  of  life  being  worth  living 
must  be  solved,  and  can  be  solved  only  by  the  aid 
of  science. 

Then,  also,  it  becomes  clear  that  public  thought  is 
by  no  means  quite  so  selfish  an  affair  as  we  are  often 
tempted  to  believe.  We  are  having  the  question,  lt  Is 
Life  Worth  Living  ? "  discussed  by  the  people,  as  I 
write ;  and  that  folks  should  spare  time  to  indite  their 
views  and  opinions  on  such  a  matter,  in  this  bustling 
age,  is  truly  a  sign  of  the  times  from  which  one  might 
argue  that  disinterestedness  and  unselfishness  are  not, 
after  all,  either  unknown  or  unpractised  in  modern  life. 

Yet  throughout  the  controversy  or  symposium,  as 
it  might  better  be  termed  (I  have  read  the  contribu- 
tions of  wisdom  and  experience  with  care,  as  a  plea- 
sant exercise  on  a  Continental  holiday),  one  misses  a 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  LIFE.  177 

practical  ring  in  the  guidance  which  most  of  the  writers 
have  to  give  in  this  matter  of  living  wisely  and  living 
well.  It  seems  perfectly  clear  that  many  of  the  scribes 
who  discuss  that  topic  in  the  papers  require  a  guiding 
clue  to  close  argument.  They  become  discursive  and 
often  aggravating  in  their  discussion  of  the  thousand 
and  one  ills  of  life,  until,  as  I  heard  a  peppery  old 
Anglo-Indian  remark  at  Dinant  the  other  day,  "life 
would  be  worth  living,  if  it  weren't  for  the  asses  who 
write  to  the  papers  ! "  This  was  not  a  fair  or  just 
remark,  however,  and  judging  from  the  physique  of 
the  critic,  one  may  presume  that  years  of  broiling 
beneath  a  tropical  sun  may  have  tinged  his  view  of 
life  and  its  value  in  a  very  decided  fashion. 

The  first  essential  to  a  pleasurable  life,  in  my 
humble  opinion,  is  a  sound  body.  Let  us,  at  least, 
begin  with  this  plain  dictum.  It  offers  us  a  sound 
footing  in  a  perfect  quagmire  of  absurdities  and  trivial 
talk  about  the  aims  and  ends  of  life. 

What  was  it  that  Charles  Reade  made  that  delight- 
ful Dr.  Sampson  ("  th'  Author  an'  Invintor  of  th'  Great 
Chronothairmal  Therey  o'  Midicine,  th'  Unity  Perrio- 
dicity  an'  Remittency  of  all  disease ")  say,  when  he 
was  dilating  on  the  value  of  life — "Jin'yus  !  Jin'yus  ! 
Tak'  care  o'  your  carkus  ! "  ?  There  was  great,  very 
great,  wisdom  in  the  worthy  doctor's  remark.  The 
possession  of  perfect  health  is  the  first  great  essential 
for  happiness  :  it  is  equally  the  first  essential  for  the 
perfect  exercise  of  mind  ;  and  it  therefore  forms  the 
first  item  for  our  consideration  when  we  ask  the 
question,  Is  life  worth  living  ?  To  the  healthy  man 
or  woman  who  takes  care  of  his  or  her  "  carkus  "  all 
things  in  the  way  of  advance  and  enjoyment,  physical 
and  mental,  are  possible. 


I78  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Conversely,  with  a  body  weakened,  no  matter  how 
or  why,  most  things  become  impossible,  or,  if  not 
actually  unattainable,  they  are  at  least  achieved  with 
difficulty  and  through  pain  and  tribulation  of  spirit. 
Sound  health  is  the  first  condition  for  enjoying  life ; 
and,  if  we  reflect  upon  the  common  causes  of  life's 
failure  in  a  social  sense,  we  may  easily  prove  that 
much  of  the  want  of  success  is  due  to  sheer  physical 
incapacity  to  enjoy  existence.  This  incapacity,  again, 
largely  arises  from  the  lack  of  knowledge  about  health 
and  its  laws. 

I  may  be  pardoned  for  laying  stress  on  this  ignor- 
ance, because  I  happen  to  be  very  practically  associated 
with  a  certain  work  and  labour  of  diffusing  such  know- 
ledge broadcast,  and  because  I  know  how  much  work 
yet  lies  ready  to  the  hand  of  the  reformer  in  things 
sanitary.  With  thousands  of  units  around  and  about 
us,  possessing  weakened  bodies  and  living  under 
conditions  the  reverse  of  sanitary  and  the  antipodes 
of  cleanliness,  freshness,  and  brightness  ;  and  further- 
more, with  the  clear  and  plain  fact  that  such  bodily 
weaknesses  are  perpetuated  onwards  in  increasing  force 
from  one  generation  to  the  next,  who  can  wonder  that 
life  is  decidedly  not  worth  living  or  worth  having  at 
the  cheapest  rate  ?  Do  we  need  to  go  much  further 
than  this  very  primary  matter  of  health  as  an  all- 
sufficient  cause  for  failure  in  most  of  the  things,  aims, 
and  aspirations  which  make  up  the  Life  Beautiful  ? 

This,  then,  is  my  first  contention.  But  there  are 
other  points  which  deserve  and  demand  consideration 
at  the  hands  of  those  who  discuss  the  question  at  issue. 
When  the  poet  longs  for  the  "  simpler  life,"  and  for  the 
fuller  existence,  he  is  expressing  a  very  real  and  crying 
desire  which  many  an  earnest  mind  among  us  feels 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  LIFE.  179 

very  strongly  and  really  in  these  latter  days.  Our  age 
has  been  described  as  an  intensely  artificial  one,  and 
one  must  admit  the  grave  truth  of  the  assertion.  Social 
advance,  it  is  said,  has  made  us  all  more  luxurious  in 
our  living  than  was  the  case  even  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury or  so  gone  by,  and  that  the  statement  cannot 
be  gainsaid  is  obvious. 

People  nowadays  are  not  contented  with  the  com- 
paratively plain  ways  and  works  of  their  forefathers. 
There  is  a  desire,  widely  represented,  "  that  the 
nobodies  among  us  should  all  be  somebodies,"  as  a 
writer  graphically  puts  it ;  and,  in  the  struggle  to 
evolve  a  social  order  which  shall  eclipse  all  preceding 
states,  luxury  and  extravagance  come  to  the  front,  and 
alter  the  ways  of  life,  and  that  very  much  for  the  worse. 
If  any  one  of  us  chooses  to  appeal  to  his  own  experi- 
ence, he  may  easily  discover  that,  in  countless  ways, 
in  the  matter  of  foods  and  drinks,  clothing,  amuse- 
ments, and  so  forth,  he  is  tempted  in  a  thousand 
directions  towards  needless  luxury  as  against  healthier 
simplicity. 

This  tendency  must  operate,  I  fancy,  in  producing 
discontent  in  the  case  of  thousands  ;  and  life,  therefore, 
seems  to  fall  short  of  satisfaction,  just  because  our 
ideas  of  what  constitutes  happiness  and  comfort  have 
become  themselves  essentially  of  an  impossible  type. 
It  may  be  that  this  striving  after  wealth  and  distinction 
is,  in  its  way,  by  no  means  a  bad  thing  after  all.  What 
one  sees  is,  that  we  have  to  pay  a  certain  penalty  when 
we  enter  upon  a  course  of  life  of  this  kind,  in  respect 
of  the  dissatisfaction  which  is  sure  to  ensue  when  we 
have  to  content  ourselves  with  the  lower  place  instead 
of  the  so-called  higher  station.  If  our  teachers  will 
only  preach  at  us  and  to  us  about  the  simplification  of 


i8o  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

life,  I  can  imagine  they  will  have  at  least  secured  a 
very  pregnant  text  for  their  admonitions.  My  Anglo- 
Indian  acquaintance  put  it  pungently  enough  when  he 
said  of  this  matter  that  "  they've  begun  to  simplify 
our  funerals ;  but,  by  Jove,  Sir  !  that's  tackling  the 
question  at  the  wrong  end." 

It  is  plain  enough  that  there  is  no  panacea  for  the 
ills  and  disappointments  to  which  life  is  subject.  The 
treatment,  to  use  a  medical  term,  is  only  palliative, 
not  radical.  One  cannot  lay  down  laws  and  precepts 
which  can  make  every  man  and  woman  happy.  Out 
of  Utopia  itself  there  could  not  exist  such  a  condition 
as  that  of  universal  satisfaction  with  everybody  and 
everything.  But  humanity  has  had  sufficient  experi- 
ence of  life  and  living,  nevertheless,  to  make  it  clear 
and  plain  that  certain  broad  rules  of  conduct  carry 
in  their  practice  the  basis  of  the  true  answer  to  the 
question,  "  Is  Life  Worth  Living  ?  "  To  be  honest 
and  true  and  upright,  let  us  hope,  will  never  become 
an  old-fashioned  order.  If  to  these  things  one  adds 
that  we  must  be  healthy  as  a  primary  condition  of 
life,  we  may  find,  with  Dr.  Sampson,  that  following 
closely  on  the  care  of  the  "  carkus  "  is  a  whole  host 
of  other  ways  and  means  of  enjoying  existence  in 
fairly  full  measure. 


XXXIV. 

is  /l&esmerfsm? 

THE  air  of  late  years  has  been  full  of  discussions 
respecting  mesmerism  and  its  use  in  medical  practice 
— or,  what  is  much  the  same  thing,  its  applicability  to 
the  wants  of  social  life  when  that  life  has  to  be  minis- 
tered to  for  the  relief  of  the  ailments  which  beset  it. 

In  these  latter  days,  mesmerism  is  no  longer  known 
under  that  name.  It  is  now  designated  "  hypnotism," 
and,  as  such,  figures  boldly  both  in  the  medical  journals 
and  in  lay  newspapers.  Some  time  ago,  I  became  per- 
sonally interested  in  the  subject,  and  consented,  at 
the  request  of  my  friend  Dr.  Bramwell,  of  Goole,  to 
initiate  a  discussion  on  the  question  of  mesmerism  in 
medicine  in  Health,  the  journal  I  have  the  honour  to 
conduct. 

That  symposium  has  proved  to  be  of  great  interest ; 
because  a  large  number  of  eminent  medical  men  have 
contributed  to  it,  and  because  of  the  variation  in 
opinions  which  the  symposium  has  been  the  means  of 
eliciting.  A  remark  of  mine  has  also  been  quoted  in 
the  New  Review,  in  an  article  by  Dr.  Bramwell  and  Mr. 
Lloyd  Best,  his  collaborateur,  and  has  been  criticised 
adversely  by  these  gentlemen.  Now  that  Sir  Andrew 
Clark  and  others  have  delivered  their  opinions  on 
hypnotism,  we  are  certainly  free  to  discuss  the  matter 
everywhere,  for  it  is  clear  that  the  question  whether, 


182  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

as  a  nation,  we  are  to  permit  ourselves  to  be  hypnotised, 
will  only  be  thoroughly  settled  by  our  first  of  all  un- 
derstanding what  hypnotism  is,  and  what  it  professes 
to  do  in  the  way  of  curing  disease. 

I  made  the  remark  that  the  mesmerist  or  hypnotiser 
could  only  be  successful  where  there  existed  intellectual 
sensitiveness  on  the  part  of  his  subjects.  My  words 
were  :  "  It  is  impossible  to  hypnotise  every  one  ;  and, 
as  far  as  my  experience  of  it  goes,  only  in  the  case 
of  the  intellectually  sensitive — shall  I  add  weak  ? — 
can  hypnotism  hope  to  secure  its  most  characteristic 
effects."  Dr.  Bramwell  and  Mr.  Lloyd  Best,  referring 
in  the  New  Review  to  these  words,  state  that  Beau n is, 
a  Continental  authority,  is  "  of  the  opinion  that  every 
one  is  more  or  less  susceptible  to  hypnotic  influence." 
They  add  that  their  own  experience  seems  to  confirm 
the  views  of  Beaunis. 

Now,  one  fact  is  worth  many  theories,  and  I  main- 
tain fearlessly  that  both  Dr.  Bramwell  and  Beaunis 
are  in  error.  For,  personally,  although  I  have  been 
many  times  tried  by  different  hypnotisers,  I  have  not 
been  in  the  least  degree  affected.  Again,  I  know 
others  who  -are  in  a  similar  position  to  myself.  They 
have  not  been  mesmerised  after  repeated  trials.  Dis- 
sected out,  Beaunis's  statement,  as  recorded  by  Dr. 
Bramwell,  is  that  every  one  is  "  more  or  less  susceptible 
to  hypnotic  influence."  This  is  a  relative  statement, 
after  all.  It  includes  comparative  degrees,  from  success 
to  the  zero-point ;  and  it  does  not  logically,  therefore, 
mean  all  its  authors  might  evidently  be  regarded  as 
implying. 

To  allege  that  everybody  can  be  hypnotised  is  a 
rash  assertion,  and  nothing  more.  For,  to  be  true,  it 
must  include  a  full  knowledge  of  every  human  being's 


WHAT  IS  MESMERISM?  183 

mental  constitution,  and  likewise  of  every  hypnotiser's 
powers.  Need  one  remark  that  neither  Beaunis  nor 
Dr.  Bramwell  nor  Mr.  Lloyd  Best  can  (or  will)  pre- 
tend to  such  absolute  knowledge  ?  and,  in  the  face  of 
common-sense  as  well  as  of  fact,  I  hold  they  are  doing 
their  cause  injury  when  they  expose  it  to  an  assault 
so  easily  made  and  so  difficult  to  repel  as  that  which 
even  one's  superficial  examination  of  their  statement 
suggests. 

But  "  What  is  this  hypnotism  ? "  is  a  query  the 
public  are  beginning  to  ask,  and  to  which  an  answer 
must  be  afforded.  I  shall  attempt  a  reply  based  on 
general  grounds,  such  as,  I  trust,  may  be  "  under- 
standed  of  the  people."  A  human  brain  is  composed 
of  a  series  of  nerve-centres,  or  parts  regulating  and 
controlling  actions  of  more  or  less  well-defined  nature. 
It  is  not  one  organ,  but  a  collection  of  organs,  all 
working  together,  in  the  healthy  organism,  for  the 
regulation  of  the  life  mental  and  the  life  physical  as 
well.  This  much  is  certain  and  sure.  While  there 
is  harmonious  working,  however,  between  the  brain- 
centres,  there  exists  also  a  certain  amount  of  inde- 
pendence among  them. 

Such  independence  is  inseparable  from  the  nature 
of  the  multifarious  duties  the  brain-centres  discharge. 
They  may  be  compared  to  the  sub-departments  in  a 
great  Government  affair — like  the  Post  Office,  for 
example — wherein  each  subdivision,  while  owning  a 
central  and  connecting  authority,  exercises,  on  its  own 
behalf,  a  fair  share  of  responsibility  for  the  discharge 
of  its  own  duties.  Now,  roughly,  yet  correctly  speak- 
ing, the  brain  shows  a  division  into  what  we  may  term 
intellectual  centres  and  lower  or  automatic  ones.  The 
former,  located  chiefly,  or  wholly,  in  the  forehead  lobes 
13 


184  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

of  the  brain,  deal  with  the  highest  affairs  of  the  mental 
state.  They  exercise  the  will,  they  are  the  seats  of 
intellectual  operations,  and  they  constitute  by  their 
collective  working  "  the  conscious  Ego  "  which  is  the 
essence  of  our  responsible  individuality. 

The  lower  or  automatic  centres,  on  the  other  hand, 
as  their  name  implies,  are  in  the  position  of  self-acting 
machines.  They  control  actions  and  operations  which 
lie  outside  the  will,  and  which  are  not  (necessarily  at 
least)  associated  with  our  consciousness.  Reading 
and  writing  and  walking,  are  each  and  all  acts  which 
are  automatically  regulated.  We  have  to  acquire  them, 
it  is  true,  but,  once  acquired,  they  are  ever  afterwards 
performed  without  thought.  Over  such  acts,  then,  the 
lower  brain-centres  preside.  I  might  quote  the  heart's 
action,  the  regulation  of  the  blood-vessels,  swallowing, 
and  the  movements  of  the  stomach  in  digestion,  as 
additional  illustrations  of  automatic  acts. 

These  lower  centres  of  ours  save  us  a  vast  deal  of 
trouble  and  worry.  They  leave  the  intellect  free  to 
deal  with  deeper  problems  than  are  involved  in  the 
mere  acts  of  living  and  being  ;  and  when  we  come  to 
think  of  it  we  see  that  a  good  three-fourths  of  our 
lives  are  really  composed  of  actions  which  are  per- 
formed utterly  without  thinking,  and  which  are  all 
the  better  performed,  in  truth,  because  we  have  not  to 
think  about  them  at  all. 

In  sleep-walking,  we  see  how  the  lower  centres  of 
the  brain  can  assume  temporary  command  of  the  body, 
how  they  can  rouse  the  sleeper  from  his  bed,  and 
direct  and  guide  his  movements  unerringly  in  the 
majority  of  cases.  Now,  mesmerism,  or  hypnotism, 
is  an  analogous  condition  to  somnambulism.  I  take 
it  that  in  the  hypnotic  state,  however  induced,  there 


WHAT  IS  MESMERISM?  185 

is  essentially  the  abolition  of  consciousness  and  will, 
by  the  repression  for  the  time  being  of  the  intellectual 
centres.  It  is  useless  and  needless  to  say  how  this 
occurs  ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say  it  does  occur.  In  one 
way  or  another,  the  hypnotiser  succeeds  in  abolishing 
the  intellectuality  of  his  subject.  The  lower  centres 
are  stimulated  and  come  to  the  front.  Automatic  life 
replaces  the  conscious  existence ;  and  the  individual 
is,  temporarily,  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter  :  he 
is  made  to  think  and  act  at  the  behest  and  command 
of  the  individual  who  has  succeeded  in  reducing  him  to 
the  level  of  a  mere  machine. 

This  is  the  essence  of  hypnotism.  Sir  Andrew 
Clark  put  the  matter  in  other  words  when  he  said 
that  the  liability  of  any  one  to  be  mesmerised  stood  in 
inverse  ratio  to  their  intellectual  development.  If  this 
means  anything  at  all,  it  implies  exactly  what  I  meant 
when  I  declared  that  it  is  the  intellectually  sensitive 
(or  weak)  who  are  the  hypnotiser's  best  subjects. 

After  this  declaration,  I  have  no  more  to  say  on  the 
subject.  If  Dr.  Bramwell  or  any  other  hypnotiser  can 
persuade  certain  people  that  they  are  not  ill,  that  pain 
has  left  them,  and  that  they  must  be  made  unconscious 
while  being  operated  upon,  I  have  no  concern  whatever 
with  his  procedure.  All  I  maintain  is,  that  he  will 
not,  and  cannot,  succeed  with  people  having  a  fair  or 
complete  share  of  volition  and  intellectual  force. 

Nor  do  I  envy  those  who  can  be  "  mesmerised." 
As  I  have  often  expressed  it,  a  person  who  is  hypno- 
tised is  in  the  position  (qua  his  brain)  of  having  the 
captain  of  the  ship  deposed  from  the  quarterdeck,  and 
the  cabin-boy  installed  in  the  captain's  place.  And 
this  is  not  an  agreeable,  safe,  or  healthy  proceeding 
either  on  shipboard  or  in  mental  life. 


XXXV. 

TTbe  Case  ot  Colonel  Uownsbenb, 

SOME  time  ago  I  was  discussing  with  a  friend  the 
curious  nature  of  certain  human  acts  which  are  capable 
of  being  performed  by  only  a  limited  number  of  in- 
dividuals among  us.  The  argument  began  by  the 
information  being  afforded  me  that  the  friend  in  ques- 
tion could  move  his  scalp  backwards  and  forwards. 
This  display  of  muscular  power  failed,  of  course,  to 
arouse  my  enthusiasm.  It  is  not  unusual  for  a  person 
to  possess  the  power  of  moving  or  wrinkling  the  skin 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  so  I  contented  myself  with 
remarking  on  the  tolerably  common  nature  of  my 
friend's  performance. 

When,  however,  he  proceeded  in  Dundreary  fashion 
"  to  wag  his  ear"  my  interest  became  aroused,  and  the 
discussion  on  unusual  muscular  movements  in  man 
was  duly  inaugurated.  That  my  friend  could  at  will 
"  wag  his  ear  "  was  not  for  a  moment  to  be  doubted. 
Seeing  was  believing — in  this  case,  at  least. 

He  reminded  me  of  a  still  more  typical  case  of  such 
ear-movements  which  occurred  when  I  was  a  Uni- 
versity examiner.  I  had  before  me  a  student  who 
was  a  decidedly  nervous  subject.  Each  question,  pro- 
pounded to  him  in  the  gentlest  of  fashions,  threw  him 
into  a  cold  perspiration.  Then  came  another  revela- 


THE  CASE  OF  COLONEL  TOWNSHEND.       187 

tion.  When  his  excitement  reached  a  certain  pitch, 
his  ears  began  to  wag,  and  the  dignity  which  is  be- 
lieved to  hedge  about  an  examiner  was  in  high  danger 
of  giving  place  to  a  species  of  ribald  mirth  at  the 
spectacle  before  me.  Doubtless  his  movable  ears 
saved  that  candidate  from  being  "  plucked  ; "  for  as  I 
began  to  question  him  about  his  abnormality  in  the 
way  of  muscular  movement  he  recovered  his  spirits 
and  his  confidence.  He  told  me  that  sundry  members 
of  his  family — past  and  present — exhibited  the  same 
peculiarity ;  and  as  he  then  proceeded  to  his  further 
trials  and  questions  he  gained  lost  ground,  and  de- 
parted from  the  examining-table  triumphant — his  ears, 
as  I  thought,  giving  a  parting  twist  of  joy  at  the  pros- 
pect of  a  "  pass."  Possibly,  if  my  former  candidate 
should  read  these  lines  (he  may  be  a  medical  man  in 
full  practice  by  this  time)  he  may  realise  how  he  was 
saved,  in  one  of  his  examinations  at  least,  "  by  his 
ears." 

My  friend's  discussion  opened  up  the  wide  question 
of  the  control  which  now  and  then  man  may  be  found 
to  possess  over  parts  and  organs  of  his  body  which 
are  usually  involuntary  in  their  nature  and  action. 
Certain  of  the  ear-muscles,  nose-muscles,  and  the 
scalp-muscles  illustrate  structures  which,  however 
movable  they  may  be  in  lower  life,  are  useless  to 
man.  A  seal,  for  instance,  closes  its  ears  and  nose 
when  it  dives,  and  its  muscles  act  perfectly  to  ensure 
the  freedom  of  these  parts  from  the  inroad  of  water. 
But  although  man  has  representatives  of  like  muscles 
in  his  ears  and  nose,  they  are  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses inactive  and  inoperative. 

If  humanity  ever  used  these  muscles  at  all,  it  cer- 
tainly has  no  use  for  them  now.  The  law  of  disuse 


i88  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

speedily  reduces,  to  rudimentary  dimensions  and  to  an 
inoperative  state,  all  organs  whose  activity  becomes 
lessened  or  abolished.  From  the  discussion  of  such 
human  muscles  and  their  past  and  gone  functions — 
occasionally  surviving  faintly  as  we  have  seen  in  scalp 
and  ear — our  talk  led  on  to  an  explanation  of  more 
curious  acts  of  man's  life,  in  which  a  command  over 
organs  usually  self-acting  is  sometimes  illustrated. 

For  instance,  I  cited  the  occasional  occurrence,  in 
humanity,  of  the  power  of  returning  the  contents  of  the 
stomach  to  the  mouth,  painlessly  and  at  will,  as  an 
instance  of  such  command.  Here  we  see  in  man  the 
establishment  of  a  power  which  is  entirely  absent,  as 
a  rule,  and  which  seems  to  represent  part  of  the  act 
of  "rumination"  or  "chewing  the  cud"  in  lower 
animals.  What  occurs  in  such  cases  is  simply  the 
development  of  command  over  the  stomach  and  gullet 
muscles.  The  one  essential  condition  for  such  an 
abnormal  feature  of  life,  is  the  alteration  of  the  nervous 
supply  of  the  parts  concerned.  That  is  to  say,  parts 
usually  governed  by  the  involuntary  nervous  system, 
come  to  be  placed  under  the  government  of  the  volun- 
tary nerves. 

Now,  a  far  more  extraordinary  instance  of  such 
command  over  parts  of  our  bodies  which  usually  work 
perfectly  and  harmoniously,  apart  from  all  intelligent 
guidance,  was  afforded  by  the  case  of  Colonel  Town- 
shend.  Some  years  ago  I  took  the  trouble  to  hunt  up 
this  case  as  given  in  its  original  form,  and  as  contained 
in  a  queer  old  volume  entitled  "  The  English  Malady  : 
or  a  Treatise  of  Nervous  Diseases  of  all  Kinds,  as 
Spleen,  Vapours,  Lowness  of  Spirits,  Hypochondriacal 
and  Hysterical  Distemper,  &c.  London  :  1733."  The 
author  of  this  volume  was  one  Dr.  George  Cheyne. 


THE  CASE  OF  COLONEL  TOWNSHEND.        189 

He  relates  how  Colonel  Townshend,  who  was  suffer- 
ing from  a  known  malady,  came  from  Bristol  to  Bath 
in  a  litter,  to  drink  the  waters  and  to  obtain  Dr. 
Cheyne's  advice. 

He  was  attended  by  Dr.  Cheyne,  a  Dr.  Baynard, 
and  Mr.  Skrine  ;  the  last  an  apothecary,  who  always 
danced  attendance  on  the  physicians  of  those  days. 
The  Colonel  informed  his  medical  men  of  "  an  odd 
sensation  he  had  for  some  time  observed  and  felt  in 
himself,  which  was  that,  composing  himself,  he  could 
die  or  expire  when  he  pleased,  and  yet  by  an  effort,  or 
somehow,  he  could  come  to  life  again — which  it  seems," 
says  Dr.  Cheyne,  "  he  had  sometimes  tried  before  he 
had  sent  for  MS!"  This  statement  naturally  puzzled 
the  doctors.  Like  wise  men  of  science  they  could  and 
did  say  nothing  until  they  were  well  assured  of  the 
reality  of  what  sounded  like  a  physiological  romance. 
Accordingly,  the  Colonel  told  them  he  was  willing  to 
make  the  experiment  in  their  presence,  and  the  follow- 
ing is  Dr.  Cheyne's  account  of  what  he  and  his  co- 
medicos  saw  : — 

The  Colonel  "  composed  himself  on  his  back,  and 
lay  in  a  still  posture  some  time ;  while  I  held  his  right 
hand,  Dr.  Baynard  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  Mr. 
Skrine  held  a  clean  looking-glass  to  his  mouth.  I 
found  his  pulse  sink  gradually,  till  at  last  I  could  not 
feel  any,  by  the  most  exact  and  nice  touch.  Dr. 
Baynard  could  not  feel  the  least  motion  in  his  heart, 
nor  Mr.  Skrine  the  least  soil  of  breath  on  the  bright 
mirror  he  held  to  his  mouth  ;  then  each  of  us  by  turns 
examined  his  arm,  heart,  and  breath,  but  could  not,  by 
the  nicest  scrutiny,  discover  the  least  symptom  of  life 
in  him.  We  reasoned  a  long  time  about  this  odd  ap- 
pearance as  well  as  we  could,  and  all  of  us  judging  it 


190  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

inexplicable  and  unaccountable,  and  finding  he  still  con- 
tinued in  that  condition,  we  began  to  conclude  that  he 
had  indeed  carried  the  experiment  too  far,  and,  at  last, 
were  satisfied  he  was  actually  dead,  and  were  just 
ready  to  leave  him.  This  continued  about  half-an- 
hour.  By  nine  o'clock  of  the  morning  in  autumn,  as 
we  were  going  away,  we  observed  some  motion  about 
the  body,  and,  upon  examination,  found  his  pulse  and 
the  motion  of  his  heart  gradually  returning ;  he  began 
to  breathe  gently  and  speak  softly." 

The  sequel  is  instructive.  After  making  his  will, 
Colonel  Townshend  died  the  same  evening  about  five 
or  six  o'clock,  after  having  received  the  last  offices 
of  the  Church.  Dr.  Cheyne  leaves  the  case  "  to  the 
philosophic  reader  to  make  what  inferences  he  thinks 
fit ; "  and  science  to-day  infers  that  Colonel  Town- 
shend's  case  was  one  exemplifying  nervous  command 
over  heart  and  lungs  such  as  rarely  occurs  in  human 
experience,  and  such  as  alters  the  way  of  life  in  a 
manner  which  is  the  puzzle  of  the  wise  among  us. 
Nevertheless,  there  are  obvious  links  between  this  case 
of  command  over  the  heart  and  that  whereby  we  some- 
times illustrate  the  power  of  wagging  our  ears. 


XXXVI. 

Spleen* 

WHO  was  it,  of  old,  that  first  gave  vent  to  the  expres- 
sion "  a  fit  of  the  spleen  "  ?  And  to  whom,  one  may 
ask,  are  we  indebted  for  the  pleasing  illusion  that 
this  harmless  organ  is  a  kind  of  cistern  of  all  the 
vile  humours  which  do  congregate  within  the  body's 
domain  ?  Wordsworth,  kindliest  if  also  the  moodiest 
of  poets  at  times,  speaks  of  the  self-disparagement 
which  "  affords  to  meditative  spleen  a  grateful  feast." 
Pope's  words,  "  parent  of  vapours  and  of  female  wit, 
who  give  th'  hysteric  or  poetic  fit,"  and  his  assertion 
that  "  The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns," 
evidently  indicate  a  mixed  opinion  regarding  this  cele- 
brated organ.  More  direct  in  his  impeachment  of  the 
spleen  is  Green,  who  in  his  poem  of  that  name  advises 
us  that  "  to  cure  the  mind's  wrong  bias,  spleen,"  we 
have  to  "  fling  but  a  stone,"  and  "  the  giant  dies." 

The  classic  naturalists  and  physicians  entertained 
curious  ideas  concerning  this  organ.  To  them  it  was 
certainly  a  vital  puzzle.  It  did  not  seem  to  manu- 
facture anything,  as  did  the  liver,  and  out  of  it  there 
was  no  duct  or  pathway  leading  to  the  digestive 
system.  Erasistratus,  coming  to  the  end  of  his  intel- 
lectual tether  in  the  matter,  declared  that  the  spleen 
had  only  the  function  of  bodily  "packing,"  in  that  it 


192  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

prevented  the  other  organs  being  displaced  when  their 
possessor  moved  about.  This  was  a  sorry  conclusion, 
no  doubt ;  but  then  the  spleen  presented  no  ordinary 
problem  to  primitive  physiology. 

Listen  to  a  quaint  translation  of  what  Pliny  wrote 
about  this  organ  :  "  This  member  hath  a  proprietie  by 
itself  sometimes  to  hinder  a  man's  running  :  where- 
upon professed  runners  in  the  race  that  bee  troubled 
with  the  splene  have  a  devise  to  burn  and  waste  it 
with  a  hot  yron.  And  no  marveile  :  for  why  ?  They 
say  that  the  splene  may  be  taken  out  of  the  bodie  by 
way  of  incision,  and  yet  the  creature  live  neverthe- 
lesse ;  but  if  it  be  man  or  woman  that  is  thus  cut  for 
the  splene,  hee  or  shee  loseth  their  laughing  by  the 
meanes.  For  sure  it  is  that  intemperate  laughers  have 
always  great  splenes."  Losing  the  "  splene,"  accord- 
ing to  Pliny,  was  thus  "  no  joke,"  both  in  a  literal  and 
in  an  actual  sense.  So  far  he  is  right,  however,  in 
his  statement  that  the  spleen  may  be  extirpated  from 
animals  (including  man)  without  apparent  ill-effect. 
This  fact  would  only  seem  to  justify  the  classic  idea 
that  the  organ  was  of  little  or  no  use  in  the  vital 
economy ;  but,  as  we  shall  see,  there  are  other  and 
better  ways  and  fashions  of  explaining  the  anomaly. 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  as  regards  the  spleen, 
there  is  not  much  to  be  told,  structurally.  Yet,  from 
a  basis  of  anatomical  facts,  we  reach  clear  enough 
notions  of  what  the  spleen  does.  About  five  inches 
long  by  three  or  four  inches  broad,  and,  say,  an  inch 
in  thickness  and  seven  ounces  in  weight,  the  spleen  is 
an  organ  of  dark  bluish-red  colour,  which  lies,  snugly 
enough,  at  the  left  side  of  the  stomach.  As  I  have 
noted,  no  tube  or  duct  leads  away  from  it — that  is  to 
say,  it  does  not  appear  to  be  a  manufacturing  organ, 


THE  SPLEEN.  193 

like  the  liver  or  sweetbread,  each  of  which  has  a  given 
duty  to  perform  in  secreting  a  fluid  (or  fluids)  from 
the  blood,  and  of  giving  forth  such  manufactured  pro- 
ducts to  be  used  in  the  digestive  process.  But,  while 
there  is  an  absence  of  apparent  outlet,  we  are  struck 
by  the  fact  that  into  the  spleen  a  very  large  artery 
passes,  while  out  of  it  proceeds  a  very  large  vein. 
.  If,  now,  we  subject  the  organ  to  a  microscopic 
scrutiny,  we  learn  more  in  detail  regarding  its  nature. 
It  is  a  soft  pulpy  organ,  and  its  substance  is  appro- 
priately enough  known  as  "  spleen  pulp."  This  sub- 
stance really  consists  of  a  kind  of  meshwork,  supporting 
the  softer  matter  of  the  organ.  Now,  into  this  pulp 
the  artery  of  the  spleen  dives,  dividing  and  branch- 
ing, as  it  goes,  into  numberless  minute  blood-vessels. 
Closely  connected  with  this  arterial  network  are  the 
beginnings  of  the  splenic  vein  ;  so  that,  practically,  we 
arrive  at  a  first  and  important  conclusion  about  the 
spleen,  when  we  discover  that  blood  must  perpetually 
be  whirled  into  the  organ  by  the  artery,  and  as  con- 
stantly taken  away  from  it  by  the  vein. 

We  might,  in  truth,  not  inaptly  compare  the  spleen 
to  a  kind  of  whirlpool  or  eddy,  on  the  course  of  a 
river — the  blood-circulation — into  which  the  stream 
is  swept,  and  out  of  which  it  is  in  turn  whirled  away. 
But  the  microscope  teaches  us  something  more  about 
the  spleen-pulp  and  its  nature.  Borne  on  the  little 
twigs  of  the  spleen  artery  we  see  certain  rounded 
bodies  known  as  "  spleen  corpuscles."  Moreover,  im- 
bedded in  the  pulp  we  find  the  corpuscles  or  globules 
of  the  blood  in  all  stages  of  breakdown  and  in  all 
stages  of  construction.  So  that  a  second  conclusion 
regarding  the  organ  seems  warranted — namely,  that 
it  is  closely  connected  with  the  blood,  and  with  the 


194  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

elaboration  of  the  elements  which  go  to  make  up  that 
all-important  fluid. 

Let  us  now  appeal  to  other  facts  for  further  details 
about  the  spleen.  After  it  has  been  removed  from  an 
animal's  body,  we  note  an  increase  in  size  of  certain 
other  organs ;  to  wit,  the  lymphatic  glands  and  allied 
structures.  Here  we  see  a  balance  of  power  illus- 
trated ;  and,  as  these  glands  certainly  deal  with  the 
elaboration  of  the  blood,  it  is  a  just  inference  that, 
as  they  take  on  themselves  the  work  of  the  absent 
spleen,  the  latter  organ  must  discharge  much  the  same 
duties  as  the  glands  in  question. 

Nor  is  this  all.  An  appeal  to  the  facts  observed 
by  physiologists  and  physicians  reveals  that  more 
white  blood-globules  exist  in  the  blood  that  leaves  the 
spleen  than  in  the  blood  which  enters  it.  These  white 
globules  are  most  important  elements  in  our  bodily 
welfare.  They  perform  the  office  of  roving  detectives, 
ever  on  the  look-out  for  intruding  germs  and  other 
evil-doers,  arresting  them  and  destroying  them  before 
they  can  work  their  effects  upon  our  frames. 

Again,  the  natural  quantity  of  white  blood-globules 
is  vastly  exceeded  when  the  spleen  is  irritated  by 
disease ;  and  these  facts  prove  that  in  some  way  or 
other  the  organ  is  likely  to  be  a  manufactory  of  white 
blood-corpuscles.  Turning  again  to  the  spleen-pulp, 
why  is  it  that  we  find  in  it,  as  already  noted,  large 
numbers  of  red  blood-corpuscles  in  a  stage  of  dissolu- 
tion ?  There  is  suggested  naturally  the  reply,  that 
the  spleen,  in  addition  to  its  work  of  making  white 
blood-globules,  acts  as  a  place  or  depot  in  which  the 
worn-out  and  useless  elements  of  the  blood  are  broken 
up  and  disposed  of. 

This,  then,  is  the  solution   of  the  mystery  of  the 


THE  SPLEEN.  195 

spleen.  It  is  like  a  ship-breaker's  yard,  or,  rather, 
more  closely  resembles  a  railway  depot.  The  old  and 
useless  rolling-stock  of  the  blood  is  got  rid  of  within 
its  environs,  while  new  rolling-stock  is  built  and  pre- 
pared for  the  varied  uses  of  the  system. 

After  all,  the  story  of  the  spleen,  as  told  us  by 
modern  science,  is  not  a  whit  less  wonderful  than 
were  the  fancies  indulged  in  regarding  its  duties  by  the 
classic  writers.  It  is  surely  not  less  wonderful  to  think 
of  the  mystic  work  of  the  spleen  in  thus  assimilating, 
building,  and  constructing  the  new  blood-elements, 
and,  in  turn,  of  dissolving  and  breaking  up  the  old 
ones,  than  to  think  of  it,  as  it  was  regarded  in  ancient 
days,  as  playing  a  part  in  the  constitution  of  the  mind 
and  its  moods.  The  old  legends  have  passed  away, 
and  have,  like  the  worn-out  corpuscles,  died  a  natural 
death.  The  spleen  is  a  figure  of  modern  science  itself, 
which  reconstructs  and  remodels  that  which  is  old,  and 
presents  us  with  new  ideas  which  are  none  the  less 
fascinating  because  they  are  true. 


XXXVII. 

Ube  Uongue  anb  Speech 

A  YEAR  ago,  when  strolling  through  that  most  notable 
of  picture  galleries  at  The  Hague,  I  took  a  welcome 
siesta  in  front  of  that  striking  picture  of  Rembrandt's 
"The  Lesson  in  Anatomy."  Doubtless  the  picture  has 
a  gruesome  look  to  the  non-scientific  mind  ;  but  as  a 
representation  of  a  dissertation  on  the  bodily  structure, 
such  as  was  given  in  the  olden  days,  it  has,  of  course, 
no  rival.  Standing  out  prominently  amid  the  lights 
and  shades  of  that  valuable  canvas,  one  figure  arrests 
the  attention  of  the  spectator.  It  is  the  professor  or 
demonstrator  who  is  expounding  the  structure  of  the 
dead  body  to  his  audience. 

For  a  while,  I  puzzled  myself  where  I  had  met  with 
the  name  of  the  learned  Dr.  Nicolas  Tulp,  of  Amster- 
dam, whom  Rembrandt  has  thus  immortalised  in  his 
picture.  A  retrospective  mental  glance  served,  however, 
to  fix  the  source  of  my  impression.  I  had  been  diving 
into  the  literature  of  that  most  curious  topic,  the  tongue 
in  relation  to  speech,  and  had  met  with  a  reference  to 
a  notable  work  whereof  the  worthy  Tulp  was  the  author. 
He  was  born  in  1593,  and  died  in  1674,  and,  by  all 
accounts,  was  a  man  learned  in  medicine  and  surgery, 
and  esteemed  as  a  good  citizen  and  patriot  as  well. 
Four  times  was  he  elected  Burgomaster  of  his  well- 


THE  TONGUE  AND  SPEECH.  197 

beloved  Amsterdam  ;  and  we  learn,  moreover,  that  when 
certain  weak  souls  counselled  that  the  city  of  the  dykes 
should  be  handed  over  to  Louis  XIV.,  Tulp  was  one 
of  the  foremost  in  advising  a  patriotic  resistance  to 
the  proposal. 

For  full  fifty  years,  we  learn,  Tulp  practised  medi- 
cine in  his  city.  As  was  usual  with  a  man  of  acute 
observation,  he  contrived  to  place  on  record  not  a  few 
of  the  curious  experiences  he  met  with  in  the  course 
of  his  practice.  For  example,  in  1652,  Dr.  Tulp  pub- 
lished at  Amsterdam  a  work  entitled  "  Observationes 
Medicae,"  and  in  the  course  of  this  treatise  we  find  him 
relating  a  case  of  interest  in  connection  with  the  tongue 
in  its  relation  to  speech.  It  had  been  hotly  debated 
whether  or  not  the  lt  unruly  member  "  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  speech.  Tulp's  opportunity  of  contri- 
buting to  the  elucidation  of  this  question  arrived  with 
his  observation  of  a  case  in  which  a  man's  tongue  had 
been  removed,  and  in  whom,  therefore,  the  facts  of  its 
relation  to  articulation  could  be  conveniently  studied. 

The  man  was  called  Joannes  the  Dumb.  He  lived 
at  Weesp,  a  town  about  eight  miles  from  Amsterdam, 
and  now  celebrated  for  its  great  cocoa  works.  It  seems 
that  in  one  of  his  voyages  Joannes  had  fallen  into  the 
clutches  of  pirates,  who,  imbued  with  proselytising  de- 
sires, sought  to  make  him  embrace  the  Mohammedan 
faith.  But  the  Dutch  courage  was  strong,  and  the 
Dutch  nature  stubborn.  Joannes  resisted  the  polite 
request  of  his  captors,  and,  as  a  result,  his  tongue  was 
duly  excised  by  way  of  punishing  him  for  his  non- 
appreciation  of  the  piratical  offer.  He  returned  to 
Holland,  and  was  unable  to  speak.  But,  some  three 
years  after  his  return,  Joannes  received  another  severe 
mental  shock  in  the  shape  of  a  flash  of  lightning,  which 


198  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

.unexpectedly  disturbed  and  alarmed  him.  The  result 
of  this  shock  was  the  literal  loosening  of  his  hitherto 
absent  powers  of  speech. 

Naturally  the  incident  was  bruited  abroad  as  a 
wonder,  and  Dr.  Tulp  proceeded  to  Weesp  as  a  student 
of' science,  determined  to  investigate  the  matter  to  its 
end.  There  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  Joannes  the 
Dumb  had  recovered  his  power  of  speaking.  Dr.  Tulp 
tells  us  there  had  been  mutilation  of  half  his  tongue,  and 
that,  notwithstanding  this  defect,  the  dumb  man  spoke, 
and  accurately  pronounced  "one  and  all  the  consonants, 
the  enunciation  of  which,"  adds  Tulp,  "  is  attributed 
by  the  most  sagacious  investigators  of  Nature  to  the 
tip  of  the  tongue  alone."  The  recovery  of  the  power 
of  speech  was,  probably,  correctly  enough  interpreted 
by  Tulp.  One  mental  shock  may  deprive  us  of  speech, 
just  as  a  second  shock  may  loosen  the  recalcitrant 
function  and  set  the  mental  machinery  in  operation 
once  more.  Apart  from  this  latter  point,  however,  no 
doubt  remains  regarding  Dr.  Tulp's  observations,  and 
Joannes  the  Dumb  remains  on  the  page  of  history  as 
one  case  notable  in  the  series  of  allied  experiences  of 
science. 

Later  on,  in  1718,  M.  de  Jussieu  published,  in  the 
Transactions  of  the  French  Academy  of  Sciences,  the 
case  of  a  Portuguese  girl,  who,  although  born  minus  a 
tongue,  spoke  distinctly  and  easily,  although  there  were 
certain  consonants,  such  as  c,  f,  g,  /,  n,  r,  and  others, 
which  were  pronounced  with  some  amount  of  incon- 
venience. Then  comes  the  case  of  one  Margaret 
Cutting,  of  Wickham  Market,  in  Suffolk,  who  having 
lost  her  tongue  as  a  result  of  some  affection  or  other 
of  the  organ,  could  nevertheless  pronounce  "  letters 
and  syllables  very  articulately  "  (s/V) — a  fact  testified 


THE  TONGUE  AND  SPEECH.  199 

to  by  three  worthy  persons,  one  Benjamin  Boddington, 
Turkey  merchant ;  William  Notcutt,  a  minister ;  and 
William  Hammond,  an  apothecary.  The  case  of  Mar- 
garet Cutting  has  the  honour  to  figure  twice  in  the 
Transactions  of  the  Royal  Society  of  London,  the  first 
of  these  accounts  having  been  read  in  1742.  Miss 
Cutting  herself  testifies  in  a  letter  to  her  ability  and 
happiness  at  being  able  to  speak  perfectly  ;  and  one 
might  have  been  gallant  enough,  had  the  times  and 
days  been  nearer  our  own,  to  have  congratulated  her 
on  the  power  of  exercising  a  feminine  privilege  despite 
the  untoward  accident  which  had  deprived  her  of  the 
organ  of  speech. 

Readers  of  that  most  useful  little  text-book,  Huxley's 
"  Physiology,"  will  recollect  that  the  learned  author 
describes  in  detail  certain  recent  cases  in  which,  in  the 
absence  of  the  tongue,  the  power  of  speech  has  been, 
on  the  whole,  well  exercised.  Mr.  Nunneley,  the 
famous  surgeon  of  Leeds,  gave  an  account  of  a  case 
in  which  his  advice  was  sought  in  1861.  The  subject 
of  this  memoir,  whose  tongue  had  been  removed  for 
disease,  was  keeping  a  public-house  in  Wakefield  in 
the  year  just  named,  and  Mr.  Nunneley  remarks  of  his 
speech,  that  "  casual  observers  would  only  suppose  he 
had  some  little  impediment  in  his  articulation." 

Sir  Charles  Lyell,  Mr.  Huxley,  and  others  saw  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Nunneley's  memoir.  All  the  letters  of 
the  alphabet  were  distinctly  repeated  to  Sir  Charles 
Lyell,  although,  curiously  enough,  the  word  "  Leeds  " 
was  pronounced  with  difficulty.  Mr.  Huxley  found 
that  this  man  could  not  pronounce  "  1's  "  and  "  d's  " 
initial  and  final.  Thus  "  tin  "  he  pronounced  "  fin  ;  " 
"toll,"  "pool;11  "dog,"  "shog;"  "dine,"  "vine." 
The  letters  /  and  d,  Mr.  Huxley  adds,  require  the  tip 
14 


200  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

of  the  tongue  to  be  brought  well  up  to  the  teeth  in 
front  of  the  palate,  and  in  this  case,  such  an  act  was, 
of  course,  impossible.  Again,  consonants,  such  as 
"  v  "  and  "  z,"  were  given  imperfectly  because,  for  their 
correct  pronunciation,  the  tongue  must  be  in  contact 
with  the  front  part  of  the  palate.  It  was  also  curious 
to  observe  that  all  the  sounds  made  when  the  tongue 
is  brought  in  contact  with  the  hinder  part  of  the  palate 
were  correctly  rendered  by  Mr.  Nunneley's  patient, 
with  the  exception  of  the  final  "  g."  Mr.  Huxley  ex- 
plains this  on  the  ground  that,  "  for  a  good  final  '  g/ 
the  cavity  of  the  back  part  of  the  mouth  must  be  com- 
pletely stopped  by  the  tongue."  These  curious  cases 
open  up  for  us  a  new  view  regarding  speech. 

They  may  also  serve  to  remind  us  explicitly  that 
speech  even  more  truly  is  in  its  essence  a  brain-act ; 
and  that  even  given  a  perfect  tongue,  we  are  unable 
to  exercise  it  unless  the  brain's  health  and  vigour  are 
intact. 


XXXVIII. 

TCown  2Ltfe  anb  its  Effects, 

MY  late  friend  Dr.  Milner  Fothergill,  among  the  many 
trite  things  to  which  he  gave  expression  in  his  writings, 
laid  stress  upon  the  fact  that  our  town  life  is  in  itself 
a  cause  of  the  degeneracy  of  the  race.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Cantlie  (now  of  Hong  Kong),  who,  if  I 
mistake  not,  alleged  that  it  was  well  nigh  impossible 
to  trace  a  pure-bred  Londoner  and  his  kith  and  kin 
beyond  the  fourth  generation.  Other  writers  have 
directed  attention  to  the  same  grave  problem  of  city 
life  and  its  conditions  as  affecting  the  race.  They 
point  to  the  tremendous  influx  of  country  life  which 
takes  place  yearly  into  London  and  other  great  centres 
of  population,  and  they  tell  us  that  the  city  owes  its 
chief  vitality  to  this  infusion  of  fresh,  healthy  blood 
into  its  masses. 

But  in  time  these  infusions  will  be  affected  by  the 
prevalent  causes  of  town-degeneration ;  and  so  the 
great  mill  of  life  continues  to  grind  us  down,  slowly,  it 
is  true,  but  to  grind  us  out  in  time  (say  the  physiolo- 
gists) altogether.  Of  course,  the  causes  of  the  de- 
generacy which  city  life  is  said  to  effect  are  to  be 
found  in  the  generally  unhealthy  conditions  under 
which  existence  is  pursued.  Pure  food,  pure  air,  and 
pure  water  form  the  tripod  of  life  in  so  far  as  our 


202  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

surroundings  are  concerned  ;  and  it  is  precisely  these 
conditions  which  are  not  typically  represented  in  our 
great  centres. 

As  to  house  accommodation,  it  is  only  of  late  years 
we  have  been  awaking  to  the  ideas  that  it  is  nothing 
short  of  disgraceful  to  permit  cellar-dwellings  and 
dilapidated  tenements  to  be  inhabited  at  all ;  and  that 
to  screw  out  of  the  poor  of  the  slums  an  extortionate 
rent  for  houses  compared  with  which  an  ordinary 
pig-stye  is  cleanly  and  sanitary,  is  an  extortionate, 
unjust,  and  crying  evil. 

The  fact  is  that,  the  moment  we  have  to  deal  with 
masses  of  human  beings,  aggregated  together  in  cities, 
and  living  under  conditions  which  violate  every  rule 
of  health,  we  come  upon  causes  of  physical  degenera- 
tion which  are  too  evident  to  admit  of  theoretical 
modification,  far  less  denial.  An  author  has  taken 
the  trouble  to  total  up  for  us  the  number  of  persons 
engaged  in  some  half-dozen  sedentary  occupations  in 
London  in  1881.  We  find  his  figures  to  give  us: 
indoor  domestic  servants,  258,709;  general  labourers, 
78,115  ;  milliners,  &c.,  71,837  ;  clerks,  60,605  >  tailors, 
41,221  ;  and  carpenters,  38,143.  Thus,  out  of  some 
548,000  persons,  about  four-fifths  lead  an  indoor  life, 
and,  of  these,  two-fifths  (or  173,000)  follow  purely 
sedentary  trades. 

What  sedentary  life  means  to  the  units  which  follow 
it  closely  most  of  us  may  know.  It  implies  the  want 
of  the  first  essential  for  healthy  life — pure  air — and  it 
includes  yet  another  condition  of  vitality — free  and 
open-air  exercise.  Deterioration  of  frame  in  the  one 
generation,  we  have  also  to  note,  is  transmitted  with 
tenfold  force  to  the  next.  As  health  is  cumulative  in 
its  effects,  so  also  are  disease  and  degeneracy ;  so  that 


TOWN  LIFE  AND  ITS  EFFECTS.  203 

the  mere  pursuit  of  life  and  life's  avocations  in  a 
big  city  must,  in  the  cases  of  sedentary  workers,  be 
attended  not  only  by  an  increasing  lack  of  vitality, 
but  by  a  transmission  of  the  weakness  to  succeeding 
units.  And  there  comes  a  point  in  this  handing  on  of 
feeble  health,  says  the  sanitarian,  when  the  climax  is 
reached  in  the  shape  of  the  absolute  dying  out  of  the 
enfeebled  stock. 

The  author  from  whom  I  have  already  quoted  re- 
minds us  that  if  we  treat  London  as  a  kind  of  county 
or  area  by  itself,  we  find  that  out  of  every  1000 
persons  in  London  371  are  country-born.  An  immi- 
gration of  37  per  cent,  thus  represents  what  the 
London  population  owes  to  country  blood.  Again, 
Mr.  Galton  is  emphatic  enough  in  his  calculations  as 
to  the  percentage  of  the  supply  of  units  (to  the  next 
generation)  which  is  represented  in  rural  and  city 
districts  respectively.  Thus,  IOOO  families  in  rural 
districts  will  supply  about  2334  adults  to  the  next 
generation,  while  1000  town  families  will  only  supply 
1796.  The  town  supply  is  only  77  per  cent,  of  the 
country  instalment,  and  to  the  second  generation  it  is 
only  59  per  cent,  of  the  rural  contribution. 

Attacked  thus  from  the  side  of  increase  and  con- 
tinuance, we  see  that  the  failure  of  vitality  in  towns 
makes  itself  felt  on  the  population  question  in  a  very 
marked  fashion ;  and  this  accords  with  what  Mr. 
Cantlie,  as  we  have  seen,  tells  us  about  the  decadence 
of  the  pure-bred  Londoner.  Statistics,  proverbially, 
may  be  made  to  prove  anything  ;  but  in  the  department 
of  health  we  tread  on  relatively  sure  ground  in  the 
matter  of  figures.  Taking  London,  typically  so  called, 
and  excluding  districts  which  are  more  or  less  suburban 
in  character,  we  are  told  that,  comparing  it  with  healthy 


204  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

districts,  the  difference  of  death-rate  is  at  the  rate  of 
9.24  per  1000  per  annum.  If,  now,  the  population  of 
typical  London  is  set  down  at  2,767,298,  we  discover 
that  25,559  lives  are  thus  annually  lost  in  consequence 
of  the  conditions  which  prevail  in  this  dense  centre  of 
mankind.  No  less  startling  is  the  fact  that  of  every 
1000  infants  born  (I  quote  from  my  author  once  again) 
1 1 2  more  die  under  fifteen  years  of  age  in  urban 
London  than  in  the  healthy  districts. 

Enough  of  figures,  however ;  and  I  know  that  my 
readers  will  remind  me  that  "  London  is,  after  all,  the 
healthiest  place  of  any."  I  reply,  on  the  whole  it  is — 
for  those  who  can  afford  to  purchase  the  best  of  life's 
conditions.  The  healthy  London  of  which  my  friends 
speak  is  a  selected  London ;  and  their  argument  is 
therefore  a  very  one-sided  one,  after  all  is  said  and 
done.  I  say  to  those  who  argue  for  healthy  London 
that  they  represent  (the  healthy  units,  I  mean)  the  sur- 
vivors of  a  very  tremendous  general  mortality.  They 
are  the  favoured  few  who  escape,  by  reason  of  their 
affluence,  the  dangers  and  degeneration  which  beset 
the  many.  It  is  the  old  story  over  again  of  the  visitor 
to  the  slums  of  a  city,  who  said  to  his  guide  that  the 
gutter  children  looked  fairly  well  and  sturdy.  "  Yes," 
replied  the  guide,  "  but  these  children  play  on  the 
graves  of  their  thousand  companions  who  have  suc- 
cumbed ;  "  and  what  is  true  of  the  children  o"f  the  slums 
seems  to  me  to  hold  equally  true  of  the  population  of 
every  big  city  we  know. 

Is  there  any  remedy,  then,  I  may  be  asked,  for  this 
degeneracy  which  accompanies  city  life  ?  The  reply 
bears  that  we  may  certainly  do  much  to  better  the 
existing  state  of  things,  and  that  according  to  plain 
health  laws.  We  want  the  State  to  take  up  the 


TOWN  LIFE  AND  ITS  EFFECTS.  205 

question  of  proper  dwellings  for  the  masses,  if  private 
enterprise  fails  to  accomplish  the  abolition  of  slums. 
We  want  philanthropists  to  purchase  open  spaces  for 
us,  and  to  give  to  the  City  lungs  for  the  free  respiration 
of  its  masses.  So,  also,  we  want  wider  facilities  for 
reasonable  recreation,  and  especially  for  the  working- 
classes.  More  "  People's  Palaces"  will  result  in  fewer 
gin-shops ;  and  greater  facilities  for  cycling,  football, 
and  other  games  will  stave  off  physical  degeneracy  as 
perchance  nothing  else  will  or  can.  Best  of  all,  we 
must  teach  the  masses  the  laws  of  health.  We  must 
see  to  it  that  in  every  school  physiology  and  hygiene 
and  domestic  economy  are  duly  taught  to  the  boys  and 
girls  who  are  about  to  leave  lessons  for  the  duties  of 
the  workaday  world. 

I  have  often  thought  that  a  hygienic  corps,  modelled 
on  the  plan  of  the  Salvation  Army,  which  could  dive 
into  the  slums  and  teach  the  masses  the  "A  B  C"  of 
health  laws,  would  effect  a  reform  for  which  we  must 
wait  as  things  are.  Meanwhile,  we  are  awaking  to 
the  knowledge  that  life  may  be  made  better  and  happier 
for  most  of  us  than  it  at  present  is  ;  and  in  the  larger 
hope  of  the  coming  day  of  health  we  must  learn  to 
labour  and — hardest  of  all — to  wait. 


XXXIX. 

H 


FOR  hours  past  the  rain  has  been  falling,  until  every 
leaf  and  spray  has  become  dripping  wet,  and  the  whole 
atmosphere  saturated  with  vapour.  The  weather  to- 
day is  a  perfect  realisation  of  Longfellow's  poem. 
There  has  been  no  stirring  outside  the  domicile.  Not 
even  an  invitation  from  a  friend  (in  waterproofs)  to  fish 
eels  in  the  brook  could  tempt  me  out  of  my  snuggery, 
where,  deep  in  "  Robert  Elsmere,"  I  have  been  passing 
the  hours  of  the  morning.  True,  eels  will  and  do  bite 
in  wet  weather  more  readily  than  other  denizens  of 
the  brook,  perhaps,  and  there  is  good  fun  (from  an 
angler's  point  of  view)  to  be  got  out  of  a  nice  two-feet 
lively  member  of  that  serpent-like  race  of  fishes.  But 
the  charms  of  an  enthralling  book  and  the  genial 
warmth  of  the  first  fire  of  the  season  are  together 
sufficient  temptations  to  remain  indoors.  There  is  no 
sign  of  a  clearing  yet.  Mr.  Piscator  is  yonder  in  the 
meadow  whipping  the  stream.  The  macadamised  road 
in  front  of  the  snuggery  has  been  washed  almost  bare 
of  its  dust  and  debris,  and  the  side-channels  overflow 
with  the  downpour  from  the  clouds. 

Looking  at  that  road,  one  sees  something  suggestive 
of  bigger  things  than  raindrops,  and  mightier  cur- 
rents than  the  streams  of  the  pathway.  Observe  how, 


A  RAINY  DAY.  207 

between  the  imbedded  stones  of  the  road,  the  water- 
drops  gradually  collect  to  form  rills.  Note  again, 
how  the  little  rills  unite  to  make  streams.  See  how 
rill  joins  rill,  until  quite  a  respectable  current,  as  to 
size,  runs  into  the  channel  of  the  overflowing  gutter. 
The  gutter  itself  is  made  and  formed  by  such  rills. 
The  road  is,  indeed,  the  "  catchment  basin  "  of  the 
rivers,  which  its  gutters  represent.  If  you  were  to 
draw  a  map  of  that  road,  its  rills,  rivulets,  and  gutters, 
you  would  imitate  clearly  and  closely  the  chart  of 
every  big  river  you  know.  For,  in  truth,  the  biggest 
river  differs  only  in  kind,  and  not  in  degree,  from  the 
rill  on  the  road.  It  is  fed  and  nurtured  by  its  streams, 
exactly  as  that  gutter  is  fed  before  your  eyes  to-day. 
There  is  a  whole  lesson  in  physical  geology  spread  out 
before  us  this  rainy  day,  in  the  shape  of  that  soaking 
roadway  ;  and  from  small  things  at  home  to  great 
things  abroad,  is  but  a  step  which  the  scientific  use 
of  the  imagination  will  bridge  over  easily  enough. 

Look  again  at  the  rills  in  the  road,  and  note  the 
work  they  are  accomplishing  in  the  small  arena  they 
occupy.  For  see,  how  the  road  is  washed  bare  by  the 
rain,  its  dust-particles  having  been  swept  away  to  the 
gutters  at  the  sides.  This  is  the  first  work  of  the 
rill  and  the  river  alike.  Each  cuts  out  a  channel  for 
itself— the  river  through  the  land,  on  a  big  scale ;  the 
rill  between  the  stones,  on  a  small  one.  Again,  each 
is  a  carrier  and  transporter  of  the  debris  which  it  de- 
taches from  the  land.  The  sodden  and  dirty  water  of 
the  gutters  is  the  result  of  the  sweeping  away  of  the 
things  of  the  earth  by  the  rills.  If  you  take  up  a 
tumbler  of  that  gutter-water,  and  allow  its  sediment 
to  settle,  you  will  find  it  is  one-half  mud.  Multiply 
your  one  tumbler-full  of  such  debris  by  the  thousands 


208  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

that  have  flowed  along  the  roadways  to-day,  and  you 
may  estimate  how  great  must  be  the  amount  of  solid 
matter  which  a  rainy  day  disposes  of,  in  that  it  sends 
all  its  material  first  to  the  rills,  then  to  the  gutters, 
and  finally  to  the  brooks  and  the  rivers  themselves. 

Turn  your  thoughts  next  to  the  rivers  of  the  world. 
The  same  action  meets  your  mental  gaze  that  you  see 
in  that  roadway.  The  river  is  an  eater-away,  an 
eroder,  of  the  land  ;  and  it  is  likewise  a  transporter 
of  the  materials  it  steals  from  the  solid  earth.  Be  it 
slow  or  be  it  rapid  in  its  course,  its  action  is  essentially 
the  same  in  character.  When  you  come  to  multiply 
the  daily  wear  and  tear  of  the  river  by  its  yearly  work, 
the  amount  of  material  it  is  seen  to  carry  down  to  the 
sea  is  found  to  exceed  belief.  Think  of  what  the 
Amazon,  and  the  Mississippi  and  Missouri,  the  Danube, 
Volga,  Rhine,  Rhone,  and  even  our  own  Thames  must 
accomplish  in  this  work  of  earth- wear  day  by  day  ! 
Millions  of  tons  of  matter  are  removed  from  the  land, 
from  mountain-peak  and  valley  alike,  and  carried  to 
lake  or  sea ;  just  as  the  rills  on  the  road  pour  their 
burden  into  the  gutter  beyond.  There  is  no  cessation 
to  this  action.  It  is  perennial,  incessant,  everlasting, 
as  a  world-phenomenon,  and  will  continue  until  this 
orb  of  ours  becomes  a  waterless,  dried-up  cinder  of  a 
globe  like  the  moon  itself. 

This  action  of  running  water  is,  in  truth,  a  serious 
thing,  speaking  geologically.  For  the  tendency  of 
every  rill  and  river  is  to  wear  down  the  land-surfaces 
through  which  it  flows  to  the  level  of  the  sea.  If 
you  open  a  geological  text-book,  you  will  find  the 
rate  at  which  each  river  performs  this  work  of 
earth-sculpture  duly  chronicled.  It  is  not  the  least 
interesting  part  of  the  history  of  running  water, 


A  RAINY  DAY.  209 

however,  to  find  that,  on  a  miniature  scale,  the 
rain-rills  in  the  road  are  doing  their  best  to  emulate 
the  work  of  their  greater  neighbours  of  the  valleys 
and  the  plains. 

You  have  seen  how  the  rills  of  the  road  cut  out 
their  channels  through  the  interstices  of  the  stones, 
and  shape  their  course  according  to  the  obstacles  they 
encounter  in  their  journeys  to  the  gutter.  Each  rill 
is  like  your  winding  river.  With  a  spice  of  philo- 
sophy, it  goes  round  what  it  cannot  sweep  away. 
This  is  the  case  with  many  a  stream  you  know  which 
meanders  through  flat-lands,  without  the  flood  and 
force  necessary  to  carve  out  a  straight  course  and  to 
sweep  all  before  it.  The  Thames  in  its  flat-lands,  or 
the  "sweet  winding  Devon"  of  the  north,  whereof 
Burns  sings,  illustrate  rivers  which  flow  in  a  sinuous 
course  because  they  have  not  the  force  necessary  to 
sweep  away  the  obstacles  which  oppose  them.  But 
when  you  read  of  the  doings  of  such  a  river  as  the 
Rio  Colorado  of  the  West,  your  respect  for  the  work 
of  running  water  increases  vastly  in  extent.  The 
Colorado  river,  in  part  of  its  course,  runs  through 
rocky  defiles,  or  "  canons,"  of  immense  depth.  These 
canons  measure  in  some  parts  more  than  a  mile  in 
depth,  and  extend  for  many  miles  as  the  natural  course 
of  the  river.  Now,  it  is  provable  that  the  river  itself 
has  actually  made  these  canons.  It  has  slowly,  but 
surely,  through  the  long  ages,  cut  and  carved  its  way 
downwards  through  the  rock,  until  it  has  found  a 
channel  a  mile  deep  from  the  surface.  Geologists 
will  tell  you  that  this  river  has  been  a  successful 
sculptor  of  the  earth,  because  its  waters  carry  just  a 
sufficiency  of  sand  to  eat  out,  as  does  a  file,  the  hard 
substance  of  the  rocks.  This  is  river-action  on  a 


2io  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

great  and  grand  scale,  it  is  true  ;  but  nevertheless 
it  leads  us  backwards,  by  simple  enough  steps  and 
gradations,  to  these  rills  of  the  roadway  and  to  the 
gutters  by  the  side  of  the  street. 

One  word  more  before  you  draw  the  blinds  and 
shut  out  the  dismal  prospect  and  the  dripping  rain. 
All  is  not  waste  in  this  action  of  running  water.  The 
material  torn  from  the  land  is  not  lost  to  the  world ; 
it  is  only  changed  in  its  form  and  uses.  Deposited 
in  lakes  and  seas  by  the  rivers,  it  will  form  the  matter 
from  which  new  rocks  will  be  constructed.  Nay,  even 
to-day,  many  a  river  filling  up  its  lake  is  a  land-maker, 
just  as  you  see  that  drain  yonder  has  become  choked 
with  the  debris  of  the  rills.  The  Mississippi  has,  for 
centuries,  been  making  new  land  at  its  delta  out  of 
the  debris  of  the  old.  To-morrow,  you  may  see  how 
the  water-borne  material  has  been  deposited  at  the 
drain-mouth  in  the  road,  as  it  is  being  laid  down 
everywhere  in  the  world's  history  by  the  rivers  that 
thieve  and  steal  from  the  land  with  one  hand,  and 
give  back  their  spoil  with  the  other.  Such  are  the 
lessons  which  are  taught  us  by  a  rainy  day. 


XL. 

ZTbe  Xessons  of  a 

NOT  far  distant  from  my  home  is  a  famous  quarry, 
which  forms  a  favourite  hunting-ground  of  geologists. 
The  temptation  of  a  fine  spring  day  has  led  me  in  the 
direction  of  this  big  hole  in  the  ground,  whence  the 
builders  in  my  locality  have  obtained  the  largest  share 
of  material  for  the  erection  of  the  city  close  by.  Sitting 
on  the  low  stone  wall  which  separates  the  quarry  from 
the  road,  a  sight  that  is  more  than  suggestive  meets 
your  gaze.  The  rock,  which  has  been  quarried  to  a 
great  depth,  is  a  hard  durable  sandstone,  whereof  one 
could  have  wished  that  our  Houses  of  Parliament  had 
been  built.  That  fine  edifice,  as  most  of  my  readers 
know,  is  in  a  state  of  stone-decay.  Attacked  by  the 
gases  of  the  London  air,  the  limestone  at  St.  Stephen's 
is  wearing  away  rapidly  enough,  and  is  illustrating  to 
the  geological  mind  aptly,  but  sadly,  that  process  oi 
"  weathering,"  which  is  responsible  for  so  much 
cosmical  wear  and  tear. 

Below  us,  however,  the  quarry  sandstone  is  durable 
enough.  The  hand  of  time,  with  its  (geological)  fingers 
of  air,  frost,  and  water,  and  so  forth,  makes  but  little 
impression  on  this  hard  stone  dug  out  from  its  native 
rock ;  and  if  perchance  the  sandstone  is  "  hard  to  work," 
as  the  mason  has  it,  you  get  a  fair  return  for  the  extra 


212  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

cost  of  labour  in  the  lasting  nature  of  the  edifice 
have  raised.      The  rock  in   the  quarry,  you  observe, 
does  not  exist  in  one  great  mass. 

On  the  contrary,  you  see  therein  the  same  appear- 
ance which  has  often  met  your  eye  as  you  have  dashed 
through  many  a  railway  cutting  at  breakneck  speed. 
It  lies  in  "  strata,"  as  the  geologist  terms  them — long 
and  fairly  regular  bands  of  rock,  varying  in  thickness 
or  depth.  This  disposition  of  the  rock  of  the  quarry 
in  layers,  or  strata,  is  in  itself  an  important  matter  in 
so  far  as  the  history  of  the  rocks  is  concerned.  For 
this  layered  arrangement  indicates  first  of  all  that  the 
rocks  were  formed  in  water  and  by  the  agency  of  water. 
Let  us  see  whether  we  may  be  able  to  glance  back- 
wards in  the  past  with  any  hope  of  arriving  at  a  clear 
conclusion  about  the  forces  and  conditions  which  were 
responsible  for  the  making  of  this  huge  mass  of  build- 
ing stone,  which  man  has  found  so  useful  for  the 
purposes  of  his  life. 

How  we  gain  a  knowledge  of  the  past  of  our  globe 
often  forms  a  matter  puzzling  enough  to  the  uninitiated 
mind.  Events  in  the  history  of  our  world — such  as 
the  making  of  the  coal,  the  formation  of  chalk,  the 
growth  of  the  old  red  sandstone,  or  the  becoming  of 
the  Silurian  rocks — occurring  ages  and  ages  before  the 
advent  of  man,  are  described  by  geologists  with  an 
accuracy  which  almost  bespeaks  the  eye  of  the  observer. 
We  can  tell  to-day  much  of  the  history  of  the  changes 
which  have  occurred  in  land  and  sea,  in  Europe  and 
elsewhere,  with  a  near  approach  to  certainty ;  and  all 
this  "  prophesying  after  the  event,"  as  it  seems,  is 
wonderful  enough  to  cause  us  to  ask  how  geology 
acquires  its  knowledge  about  the  world — the  history 
of  the  quarry  included 


THE  LESSONS  OF  A  QUARRY.  213 

The  calling  into  play  of  two  important  factors  in 
thought  explains  the  whole  mystery.  First  of  all,  our 
geologist  reasons  inductively,  from  the  present  back- 
wards to  the  past — he  argues  about  things  he  does 
not  know,  from  his  knowledge  of  present-day  things. 
"  The  present  is  the  key  to  the  past ;  "  this  is  the  motto 
of  the  geologist  of  to-day.  If  I  place  a  poker  in  the 
fire  for  a  given  time,  it  becomes  red-hot ;  and  from 
this  piece  of  present-day  knowledge,  I  feel  I  am  com- 
petent to  argue  similarly  about  the  behaviour  of  all 
other  bits  of  iron,  whether  pokers  or  not,  and  whether 
they  existed  ages  ago,  or  exist  now. 

It  is  clear,  however,  that  in  my  argument,  I  am 
tacitly  leaning  upon  a  very  sound  and  stable  principle, 
which  forms  the  second  factor  in  geological  logic.  If 
the  behaviour  of  pokers  in  the  present  is  the  key  to 
the  knowledge  of  pokers  in  the  past,  I  must  be  well 
assured  of  one  feature  about  bits  of  iron,  and  fire,  and, 
indeed,  all  other  phenomena  of  Nature — namely,  that 
they  are  all  governed  by  defined  laws,  which  act  uni- 
formly, and  which  are  not  subject  to  erratic  change. 
I  am  leaning  in  my  argument,  in  short,  upon  that 
principle  we  call  "  the  uniformity  of  Nature,"  and 
this  is,  in  truth,  a  very  stable  support.  For,  from 
astronomy  to  the  ways  of  living  things,  we  do  not  find 
the  universe  to  be  dominated  by  erratic  behaviour.  On 
the  contrary,  its  affairs  are  governed  by  stern  immu- 
table laws,  the  very  rigidity  and  regularity  of  which 
form  the  glory  of  astronomy,  and  the  great  pride  of 
mathematical  science. 

With  the  affairs  of  the  world,  viewed  as  a  mass  of 
rocks,  the  case  is  the  same ;  and  the  geologist,  there- 
fore, is  on  safe  ground  when  he  reads  the  past  in  the 
light  of  the  present.  The  forces  now  operating  in  and 


214  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

upon  the  world — frost,  ice,  snow,  internal  heat,  animals 
and  plants,  water,  and  atmosphere — he  declares,  with 
reason,  are  exactly  those  which  have  always  been  at 
work  moulding  and  sculpturing  the  earth's  crust. 
Rivers  and  seas  and  glaciers,  volcanoes,  and  earth- 
quakes, act  to-day  as  they  have  always  worked  in  the 
past.  The  differences  in  their  work  have  been  merely 
those  of  degree  and  not  of  kind  ;  and  thus  postulating 
the  uniform  way  of  the  world  (in  a  geological  sense)  he 
proceeds  to  reason  about  its  past  from  his  observation 
of  its  present  affairs. 

Our  quarry's  history  becomes  clear  enough  in  the 
light  of  this  reasoning.  Where,  to-day,  do  we  find 
any  approach  in  nature  to  the  making  of  a  quarry  ? 
The  geologist  says,  you  see  such  evidence  chiefly  in 
the  case  of  lakes,  and  also,  to  some  extent,  it  may  be, 
on  the  shores  of  shallow  seas.  Think  of  your  lake 
for  a  moment.  Into  it  run  rivers,  bringing  the  debris 
they  have  worn  and  stolen  from  the  land.  This  wear 
and  tear  consists  of  sand,  mud,  gravel,  and  like 
material.  It  is  all  deposited  in  the  bed  of  the  lake, 
and  it  tends  moreover  to  arrange  itself  in  a  given 
order.  The  heavier  matters  sink  lowest;  the  lighter 
sand  and  mud  lie  on  the  top. 

There  is  thus  a  tendency  to  arrangement  of  material 
seen  from  the  first  in  the  case  of  the  lake-bed.  Now, 
extend  your  glance,  by  a  scientific  use  of  the  imagi- 
nation, forwards  through  a  good  few  centuries.  The 
old  lake  is  being  gradually  filled  up  by  its  river-debris, 
and  its  further  history  is  one  of  choking  and  extinction 
in  so  far  as  its  lake-character  is  concerned.  The  lake 
is  now  a  swamp  or  morass.  Its  rivers  flow  through, 
over,  and  above  the  spot  into  which  they  were  once 
accustomed  to  pour  their  waters. 


THE  LESSONS  OF  A  QUARRY.  215 

By-and-by  there  come  changes  of  land-surface. 
There  may  be  sinking,  or  there  may  be  upheaval.  In 
any  case,  the  old  river-course  becomes  altered,  and 
the  filled-up  lake-basin  is  seen  to  form  part  and  parcel 
of  the  solid  land.  Its  materials  have  been  consolidated 
and  massed  together,  and  for  long  ages  it  lies  buried 
and  unheeded  in  the  earth's  crust.  Then  man  arrives 
with  his  prying  demand  for  building  stone.  He  fer- 
rets out  the  presence  of  rock  below  the  site  of  the 
old  lake-bed,  and  soon  the  superficial  debris  is  cleared 
away,  and  the  strata  of  rock  below  are  laid  bare. 

For  the  river-material  has  become  rock,  and  it 
has  arranged  itself  in  layers  or  strata,  because  of  the 
regularity  of  its  deposition  in  the  water.  The  "  wear 
and  tear  "  of  a  former  state  of  things  have  become  the 
rocks  of  to-day ;  just  as  the  river-worn  substances  now 
being  hurried  into  lake  and  sea  will  become  the  strati- 
fied rocks  of  the  future.  Our  quarry  is  part  and 
parcel  of  an  old  filled-up  lake-bed  ;  and  we  know  this, 
because,  in  the  words  of  geology,  "  the  present  is  the 
key  to  the  past ; "  and  because  the  history  of  our 
world  may  be  read  and  written  on  the  same  lines  as 
those  whereon  the  story  of  the  quarry  is  made  plain. 
15 


XLI. 

TTfte  Storp  of  tbe 

THE  usual  definition  of  an  island  as  a  piece  of  land 
surrounded  by  water  may  do  very  well  for  the  ele- 
mentary school  and  for  infantile  minds,  but  I  am  not 
sure  that  it  should  suffice  for  any  stage  of  culture 
beyond  the  lowest  and  simplest.  For  there  happen  to 
exist  ways  of  looking  at  islands  which,  while  accessible 
to  everybody,  appear  to  me  to  unite  in  themselves  all 
the  merits  of  a  true  educational  system.  Stating  my 
belief  in  another  fashion,  I  declare  that  ordinary  and 
common  modes  of  teaching  geography  are  not  only 
dull  and  uninteresting,  but  fail  to  impart  any  adequate 
notion  of  the  form,  configuration,  and,  least  of  all,  the 
history  of  our  earth. 

Your  ordinary  text-book  of  geography,  "as  she  is 
written,"  talks  barely  and  baldly  about  the  size  of 
countries,  their  boundaries,  their  rivers  and  lakes, 
capes  and  headlands,  their  populations,  their  religions, 
and  their  chief  products.  These  are  all  facts,  no  doubt; 
but  they  are  facts  which  resemble  pearls  destitute  of 
any  string  whereby  they  may  be  converted  into  a  neck- 
lace, and  thus  made  useful  and  ornamental,  both. 

My  belief,  therefore,  leads  to  the  assertion  that  we 
should  become  more  scientific — but  not  thereby  less 
popular — in  our  geographical  teaching  in  schools  ;  and 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ISLANDS.  217 

this  very  subject  of  islands  shows  the  way  of  reform. 
Science,  in  this  sense,  dives  below  the  bare  facts  of 
the  text-book,  and  seeks  to  give  reasons  for  these  facts. 
It  places  itself  in  the  position  of  an  expositor  and 
expounder  of  the  manner  in  which  our  world  and  its 
affairs  have  come  to  assume  their  existing  order. 

Geographically,  all  islands  are  regarded  as  of  much 
the  same  constitution.  They  are  detached  masses  of 
land,  surrounded  by  sea,  and  differing,  to  the  mind  of 
the  school-boy  or  school-girl,  chiefly  in  size.  Australia 
is  a  big  island ;  Madagascar  is  not  so  big ;  and  from 
Ceylon  onwards  to  Mauritius  or  the  Azores  there  are 
found  all  degrees  and  gradations  of  magnitude.  This, 
with  a  few  details  about  the  quarters  of  the  world  in 
which  islands  exist,  and  with  some  ideas  about  pro- 
ducts and  peoples,  complete  the  geographical  know- 
ledge of  the  average  man  and  woman.  Science  takes 
up  the  matter  where  commonplace  geography  ends  its 
story.  It  asks,  first  of  all,  what  islands  really  are, 
and  how  one  island  differs  from  another. 

As  the  result  of  its  investigations,  science  soon  dis- 
covers that  islands  may  be  divided  by  their  nature  into 
two  distinct  sets  or  classes.  Of  these  two  divisions, 
the  first  includes  islands  which  can  lay  claim  to  that 
title  from  the  first  day  of  their  existence,  in  that  they 
have  never  formed  part  and  parcel  of  any  larger  mass 
of  land.  Thus  we  first  distinguish  the  so-called 
" volcanic"  islands,  which,  like  the  Azores,  have  been 
thrust  up  from  the  sea-depths  by  volcanic  action,  to 
form  detached  masses  of  land  existing,  it  may  be, 
many  miles  from  a  continent  or  mainland. 

Then  comes  a  second  class  of  islands  which  are 
called  "  continental,"  because,  whatever  their  size, 
form,  or  situation,  we  can  prove  them  to  be,  geologi- 


218  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

cally,  part  and  parcel  of  a  bigger  tract  of  land.  They 
are  the  separated  and  disjointed  fragments,  so  to  speak, 
of  a  larger  land-mass.  Under  this  head  are  to  be 
included  many  islands  we  know.  The  British  Islands 
are  simply  detached  parts  of  the  European  Continent  ; 
just  as  Trinidad  is  a  fragment  of  South  America  ;  or 
as  the  Malay  Archipelago  represents  the  broken-up 
land  which,  once  upon  a  time  in  its  hale  and  solid  state, 
connected  Asia  and  Australia.  Even  New  Zealand 
and  Madagascar  are  continental  islands  in  their  way, 
although  the  exact  dates  of  their  separation  may  be 
very  hard  to  trace  in  the  mists  of  geological  time. 

Having  thus  succeeded  in  distinguishing  between 
islands  which,  like  St.  Helena,  the  Azores,  the  Gala- 
pagos, and  so  forth,  represent  the  eruptions  into  the 
earth's  outside  mass  of  volcanic  matter,  and  those 
which,  like  Britain,  Trinidad,  and  the  West  Indies, 
are  really  the  detached  pieces  of  large  land-tracts,  it 
behoves  us  to  inquire  further  into  the  history  of  each 
group.  We  find  the  sea  around  our  volcanic  islands 
of  great  depth.  They  are  separated  from  their  main- 
lands, it  may  be,  by  abysses  of  ocean.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  continental  islands  have,  relatively,  shallow 
seas  separating  them  from  their  nearest  continents. 

Witness,  in  proof  of  this  statement,  the  German 
Ocean,  the  English  Channel,  the  sea  between  Trinidad 
and  America,  or  the  general  depth  of  the  seas  around 
the  Malayan  Islands.  We  find  a  test,  not  only  of  the 
nature  of  an  island  in  the  depth  of  the  seas  around  it 
— apart  from  its  rock-structure — but,  in  the  case  of 
the  continental  islands,  we  can  assure  ourselves  of  the 
length  of  time  they  have  been  separated  from  their 
mainlands,  by  having  regard  to  the  same  matter  of 
ocean-deepness.  The  Azores,  as  volcanic  islands,  are 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ISLANDS.  219 

thus  separated  from  Portugal  by  sea  varying  from 
2000  to  2500  fathoms.  Within  a  short  distance  from 
the  islands  themselves,  the  sea  is  about  1000  fathoms 
deep;  within  300  miles  it  is  1800  fathoms,  and  soon 
deepens  to  2500.  With  the  Bermudas  the  case  is 
similar :  some  450  miles  off,  we  reach  the  sea-bottom 
at  3825  and  3875  fathoms.  St.  Helena  has  sea  of 
2860  fathoms  deep  between  it  and  Africa,  some  I  TOO 
miles  off.  Contrariwise,  the  sea  around  our  own 
shores  is  comparatively  shallow ;  but,  as  I  have 
remarked,  whenever  a  continental  island  shows,  like 
Madagascar,  a  deep  channel  between  it  and  its  main- 
land, the  story  such  depth  tells  us  is  one  of  long 
detachment  from  the  mother-country. 

So  far,  islands  have  shown  us  that,  geologically, 
their  history  is  interesting  in  respect  of  the  marked 
variation  between  the  two  classes.  Not  less  interest- 
ing is  the  additional  evidence  about  islands  which  their 
animals  and  plants  have  to  tell.  Whence,  let  us  ask, 
have  detached  islands,  like  the  Azores,  obtained  their 
animals  and  plants  ?  Upraised  from  the  sea-bed,  as 
were  these  islands,  their  living  population  must  have 
been  derived  from  other  and  previously  peopled 
lands.  This  supposition  is  confirmed  by  our  finding 
that  on  the  Azores  we  discover  no  animals  or  plants 
— excluding  those  of  man's  introduction — which  are 
not  found  on  the  Portuguese  coast. 

The  rabbits,  weasels,  mice,  and  a  single  kind  of 
lizard,  found  in  the  Azores,  are  importations.  The 
birds  which,  of  course,  can  fly  over  the  intervening 
sea,  are  those  of  Europe ;  such  also  are  the  insects ; 
and  such,  again,  are  the  plants.  In  a  word,  there  is 
nothing  about  the  animals  and  plants  of  the  Azores 
which  we  cannot  explain  by  a  reference  to  their 


220  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

European  origin.  Then  also,  on  such  detached  islands, 
we  cannot  expect  to  find  native  quadrupeds  or  frogs  ; 
for  these  animals  will  not  face  and  brave  a  long  swim 
in  the  sea.  In  a  word,  it  is  precisely  those  animals 
and  plants  which  have  ways  and  means  of  conveyance 
over  tracts  of  sea  which  people  these  distant  islands, 
and  come  to  live  and  flourish  thereon. 

Very  different  is  the  case  with  our  continental 
islands.  Here,  the  animals  and  plants  are  those  of  the 
adjacent  mainland,  altered  and  modified  only  in  so  far 
as  the  length  of  the  separation  of  the  islands  indicates 
and  allows.  Our  British  animals  and  plants  are  those 
of  the  Continent,  and  the  life  of  Trinidad  is  that  of 
South  America,  because  there  has  been  no  time,  practi- 
cally, for  change.  But  in  Madagascar,  Australia,  and 
New  Zealand,  as  islands  long  separated,  each  from 
its  mainland,  we  find  living  things  utterly  unlike  the 
greater  land-mass  from  which  each  island  was  derived. 
Thus  it  is  that  together  geology  and  biology  teach 
us  much  about  islands  of  which  geography  takes  no 
heed. 


XLIL* 

Slife  of  Sslanfcs. 

IN  dealing  with  the  history  of  islands  in  our  last  paper, 
I  referred  to  the  manner  in  which  animals  and  plants 
were  enabled  to  pass  from  one  region  to  another,  and 
thus  to  people  islands  which  had  been  raised  from  the 
depths  of  the  sea  as  independent  masses  of  land.  So 
important  however,  is  the  consideration  of  the  ways 
and  means  in  which  this  dispersal  of  life  is  carried  on, 
that  the  topic  is  interesting  enough  to  merit  the  dis- 
tinction of  our  further  attention. 

In  the  case  of  plants,  it  is  obvious  that  the  vegetable 
world  possesses  powers  of  dispersion  which  are  un- 
known in  the  animal  realm.  Many  seeds  are  furnished 
with  means  for  conveyance  by  the  wind,  and  such  as 
are  provided  with  hard  shells  may  be  protected  for 
long  periods  from  the  action  of  water.  Volcanic  islands 
owe  their  plant-life  to  the  chance  sowing  of  seeds, 
borne  by  the  winds  or  waves  to  their  shores  ;  and  birds 
also  act  as  important  colonisers  of  such  islands  through 
their  conveyance  of  seeds  adhering  to  their  plumage, 
or  contained  in  clods  of  earth  which  become  attached 
to  their  feet. 

In  the  case  of  the  animal  life  of  islands,  we  note 
that  certain  animals  are  unfitted  by  their  nature  and 
habits  to  traverse  great  distances  by  sea.  Such  are 
quadrupeds,  and  such  are  the  frogs  and  their  neigh- 


222  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

hours.  On  islands  like  the  Azores,  far  removed  from 
a  mainland,  and  having  had  no  original  connection  with 
any  continental  region,  there  are,  accordingly,  no 
native  quadrupeds  and  no  native  frogs,  toads,  or  newts 
to  be  found. 

It  is  different  with  reptiles.  Many  of  these  animals 
are  good  swimmers,  and  we  must  also  take  into  account 
the  fact  that  their  eggs  may  be  conveyed  on  driftwood, 
and  may  be  thus  transported  to  far  distant  lands.  There 
exists  an  interesting  problem  of  this  latter  kind  in 
connection  with  the  Galapagos  Islands.  These  form 
a  group  of  volcanic  islands,  erupted  into  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  and  lying  about  600  miles  off  the  South  American 
coast.  Around  them  the  sea  is  about  1000  fathoms 
deep,  and  between  the  islands  and  the  American  coast 
the  depth  may  reach  2000  or  3000  fathoms.  This  is 
a  clear  proof— even  if  we  had  not  their  rock  structure 
to  confirm  the  opinion — that  the  Galapagos  Islands 
are  the  products  of  volcanic  action,  and  are  original 
lone  masses  of  land,  showing  no  relation  whatever  to 
the  nearest  continent. 

Now,  on  the  Galapagos  there  are  no  native  quad- 
rupeds (mammalia)  and  no  native  frogs ;  this  fact  is 
justified  by  our  scientific  expectations,  as  we  have  seen. 
There  does  exist  on  these  islands  a  kind  of  mouse,  the 
true  history  of  which  is  undoubtedly  that  of  conveyance 
by  man  to  the  Galapagos.  But  as  regards  the  reptiles, 
the  case  is  very  different :  there  are  land-tortoises, 
lizards,  and  snakes.  The  lizards  number  five  distinct 
species  ;  but  all  are  of  American  origin,  and  find  their 
nearest  relatives  on  the  adjacent  continent.  One  of 
the  Galapagos  lizards  is  decidedly  aquatic  in  its  habits, 
and  is  found  swimming  freely  in  the  sea,  feeding  on 
the  seaweed  of  the  island-coasts. 


THE  LIFE  OF  ISLANDS.  223 

The  lizards  give  us  no  trouble  in  accounting  for 
their  presence  on  these  islands.  Their  American  con- 
nections point  to  an  origin  from  that  continent ;  and 
that  they  are  importations — originally  conveyed,  them- 
selves or  their  eggs,  on  driftwood  or  even  by  swimming 
— to  the  Galapagos,  is  a  theory  of  very  feasible  nature. 
The  snakes  are  more  unusual  tenants  of  oceanic  islands. 
Two  species  occur  on  the  Galapagos ;  but  both  are 
near  relations  of  South  American  serpents,  and  one,  it 
is  added,  is  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  a  Chilian 
species.  Serpents  are  animals  which  are  very  tenacious 
of  life,  and  their  powers  of  swimming  are  also,  on  the 
whole,  of  a  very  well-developed  kind. 

"  On  one  occasion,"  Dr.  Wallace  relates,  "  a  boa- 
constrictor  swam  from  South  America  to  the  island  of 
St.  Vincent,  which  is  distant  200  miles,  at  the  very 
least,  from  the  continent."  So  that,  as  regards  the 
snakes  of  the  Galapagos,  there  is  even  less  difficulty 
than  is  met  with  in  the  case  of  the  lizards.  Carried 
on  floating  trees,  or  even  swimming  across  the  inter- 
vening ocean,  into  which  a  river-flood  may  have  swept 
them,  snakes  may  readily  reach  lands  far  distant  from 
their  native  habitats. 

But  that  which  is  most  interesting  in  connection 
with  the  Galapagos  reptiles  is  the  presence  on  their 
islands  of  huge  tortoises.  These  huge  reptiles  must  be 
familiar  to  visitors  to  the  London  Zoological  Gardens. 
They  represent  enormously  enlarged  editions,  as  it 
were,  of  the  familiar  tortoises  of  every-day  life ;  so 
large,  indeed,  that  a  man  might  easily  sit  on  the  back 
of  one  and  be  conveyed  by  the  animal  without  the 
latter  being  aware  of  the  burden  it  was  carrying. 

Big  tortoises  are  not  common  animals.  We  find 
them  also  in  the  Mascarene  Islands,  which  are  associated 


224  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

with  Madagascar  itself.  But  the  Mascarene  tortoises 
have  been  shown  to  differ  from  the  Galapagos  ones, 
and  there  are  thus  practically  no  traces  of  these  huge 
reptiles  to  be  found  near  to  the  last-named  islands 
themselves.  Accordingly,  taking  his  stand  upon  the 
general  theory  which  accounts  for  the  immigrant- 
population  of  volcanic  islands,  Dr.  Giinther  tells  us 
that  the  Galapagos  tortoises  are  probably  of  American 
origin.  They  came  from  the  continent,  in  short,  which 
has  given  to  the  Galapagos  Islands  their  other  forms 
of  life. 

There  is,  besides,  no  difficulty  in  accounting  for  the 
passage  by  sea  of  these  animals.  They  are  very 
tenacious  of  life,  and  many  tortoises  emulate  their 
turtle-neighbours  in  the  fact  of  their  taking  freely  to 
water.  Doubtless  the  original  parents  or  ancestors  of 
the  big  reptiles  of  the  Galapagos  Islands  were  drifted 
out  to  sea  by  some  flood  which  swept  them  from  their 
land-haunts.  A  mass  of  driftwood  may  have  formed 
a  raft  on  which  they  would  easily  exist  for  days  and 
weeks  without  food.  Once  stranded  on  the  Galapagos 
shores,  these  reptiles  would  find  themselves  very  much 
at  home ;  and  would  settle  down  as  colonists  in  these 
lonely  isles  of  the  sea. 

It  must  be  noted,  however,  that  animals  thus  trans- 
ported to  foreign  shores  show  that  tendency  to  variation 
in  form  and  habits  which  is  so  widely  represented  in 
all  the  children  of  life.  We  know,  for  instance,  that 
as  regards  many  islands  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  the 
lizards  found  thereon,  which  are  identical  as  species 
with  those  of  the  mainland,  nevertheless  develop 
different  colours  in  their  island  habitations.  They 
usually  become  blue  or  black  in  tint.  As  regards  the 
lizards  of  the  Seychelles  Archipelago,  naturalists  can 


THE  LIFE  OF  ISLANDS.  225 

tell,  by  the  colour,  "  from  which  particular  island 
a  specimen  had  been  brought."  We  learn  from  such 
facts  the  power  which  local  conditions  of  life  possess 
over  living  beings  in  the  direction  of  inducing  varia- 
tion in  form,  colour,  and  other  particulars.  Now,  as 
regards  our  big  Galapagos  tortoises,  the  same  rule 
holds  good. 

Once  introduce  an  animal  or  plant  to  new  surround- 
ings, in  the  shape  of  food,  climate,  and  so  forth,  and 
you  may  assuredly  bargain  for  alteration  of  its  form 
and  colour.  The  Galapagos  tortoises  differ  from  other 
big  reptiles  of  that  kind ;  but  that  the  differences  are 
due  to  this  universal  tendency  to  variation  is,  at  the 
very  least,  a  reasonable  explanation,  in  face  of  the 
facts  with  which  we  are  acquainted.  We  therefore 
see  in  the  'case  of  the  Galapagos  reptiles  merely  another 
proof  of  the  wondrous  fashion  in  which  living  beings 
suit  themselves  to  new  environments :  a  power  of 
adaptation  this,  which  really  prevents  the  extinction 
and  annihilation  of  life  when  placed  in  strange  lands 
and  under  untoward  conditions. 


XLIII. 

H  Corner  of  Kent. 

STROLLING  from  Herne  Bay  towards  Reculvers  the 
other  day,  I  found  myself  on  a  coast  which  is  geologi- 
cally classic  as  regards  the  action  of  the  sea  on  the 
land.  There  are  few  coasts  which  can  tell  a  more 
typical  story  of  sea-invasion  than  this  east-coast  nook 
of  Kent.  Doubtless  the  sea  which  encompasses  us 
acts  perpetually  on  all  our  coasts,  but  Peterhead  granite 
will  withstand  the  buffeting  of  the  waves  for  ages, 
while  chalk  and  marls  will  go  the  way  of  their  kind, 
when  attacked  by  the  sea,  with  amazing  rapidity.  I 
often  think  that  a  holiday,  either  by  the  sea  or  inland, 
might  be  made,  for  the  vast  majority  of  us,  infinitely 
interesting,  were  the  local  history  of  the  places  we 
visit  made  an  object  of  even  superficial  study. 

How  many  of  the  hundreds  of  persons,  for  example, 
who  visit  Reculvers  each  summer  know  aught  of  its 
history,  or  realise  how,  as  the  old  church  stands,  ruined 
and  desolate,  it  testifies  to  the  power  of  the  sea  on  our 
coasts,  and  to  the  great  geological  lesson  of  waste  of 
the  land  ? — a  lesson  as  old  as  Job,  who  speaks  of  the 
waters  wearing  the  stones.  The  reason  why  we  yawn 
and  grow  wearied  over  holidays  is,  that  we  have  not 
learned  to  invest  our  leisure  time  with  any  meed  of 
interest  at  all.  But  with  a  little  geology  in  one's  head, 


A  CORNER  OF  KENT.  227 

and  with  a  mere  soup$on  of  zoology  or  botany,  aided, 
say,  by  a  microscope,  you  may  spend  hours  of  keenest 
delight  during  your  holiday-time,  and  rescue  other 
souls  dying  of  ennui  from  the  horrors  of  having 
"  nothing  to  do/'  which,  I  take  it,  are  much  worse  than 
those  attaching  to  the  condition  of  having  "  nothing  to 
wear." 

This  Kentish  coast  well  illustrates  the  interest  which 
may  be  made  to  attach  to  a  simple  study  in  sea- action. 
The  Isle  of  Sheppey,  to  begin  with,  measures  about 
six  miles  in  length  by  four  miles  in  breadth.  Its 
substance  consists  of  London  clay,  which  is  practically 
about  the  most  feeble  of  materials,  in  so  far  as  resist- 
ance to  the  sea  is  concerned.  Now,  Sir  Charles  Lyell 
records  that,  between  1810  and  1830,  no  fewer  than 
fifty  acres  of  the  Isle  of  Sheppey  were  swallowed  up 
by  the  sea.  The  cliffs  on  the  north,  he  tells  us,  which 
are  from  100  to  200  feet  high,  decay  rapidly  under 
the  influence  of  "  the  weather,"  under  which  term,  of 
course,  we  must  include  the  sea  itself. 

In  1780  the  church  of  Minster  was  said  to  have 
been  situated  in  the  middle  of  Sheppey  :  it  is  now 
near  the  coast,  so  that,  as  far  as  the  whole  isle  is 
concerned,  it  would  not  be  a  difficult  matter,  as  Lyell 
says,  to  calculate  the  period  when  its  annihilation 
would  be  accomplished.  It  is  true,  man  intervenes 
in  such  cases  with  his  breakwaters  and  sea-walls,  and 
thus  arrests  the  otherwise  triumphant  assault  of  the 
sea  on  the  land ;  but  the  record  of  the  ocean's  vic- 
tories and  spoils  is  nevertheless  a  huge  one,  and  the 
geological  thought  that  all  the  matter  stolen  from  the 
land  will  simply  form  the  rocks  of  the  future,  possesses, 
I  am  afraid,  but  a  poor  meed  of  consolation  for  land- 
owners to-day.  East  of  Sheppey  we  come,  of  course,  to 


228  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Herne  Bay  itself.  Here,  sea-action  has  evidently  been 
long  and  successfully  at  work ;  for  of  ba3'  there  is 
little  or  none,  and  the  former  contour  of  the  coast 
has  thus  been  materially  altered  by  the  attack  of  the 
waves. 

Walk  across  to  Reculvers — a  pleasant  stroll  of  five 
miles  or  so — and  you  come  upon  historic  evidence  of 
this  theft  of  land  by  the  sea.  A  hamlet  nestles  around 
the  old  dismantled  church,  which,  with  its  twin  towers, 
"  the  Sisters,"  forms  a  familiar  landmark  of  the  coast. 
A  bungalow  establishment  lies  to  the  west ;  below, 
and  in  the  valley,  as  it  were,  are  a  house  or  two  and 
the  inn ;  while  above,  and  nearly  on  a  level  with  the 
church,  is  the  coastguard  station — as  neat  and  trim  a 
collection  of  dwelling-places  as  the  eye  can  light  upon 
anywhere,  even  among  these  proverbially  ship-shape 
sailors'  quarters. 

The  towers  face  you  as  you  climb  the  ascent  from 
the  inn,  and  each  is  surmounted  by  a  wind-gauge, 
which  the  Trinity  House  has  erected,  and  which  you 
can  see  distinctly  from  the  windows  of  the  train  after 
you  pass  Herne  Bay,  on  your  way  to  Margate.  The 
keeper  of  the  towers  unlocks  the  gate  of  the  church- 
yard, and  a  conversation  with  him  (he  is  Reculvers- 
bred)  reveals  the  fact  that,  even  in  the  short  space  of 
a  human  lifetime,  the  sea  has  played  havoc  with  the 
cliff. 

This  man  tells  you  that  he  remembers  a  time  when 
the  outlines  of  the  cliffs  and  bays  were  very  different 
from  their  present  aspect.  The  tablet  in  front  of  the 
church  tells  you  that  the  Trinity  Brethren  acquired 
the  building  in  1810,  and  under  their  care  it  has  re- 
mained. Looking  down  some  twenty-five  feet  or  so 
to  the  beach,  you  note  the  sea-wall,  which  has  saved 


A  CORNER  OF  KENT.  229 

the  church  from  sharing  the  fate  of  the  cliffs  around — 
Sir  Charles  Lyell  aptly  calls  it  a  "  causeway  of  stones." 
When  he  visited  the  church,  in  June  1851,  he  beheld 
human  bones  and  part  of  a  wooden  coffin  "  projecting 
from  the  cliff  near  the  top ;  "  and  the  keeper  of  the 
church,  referring  probably  to  that  epoch,  reminded  me 
that  visitors  were  fond  of  carrying  off  gruesome  relics 
of  the  spot  in  the  shape  of  the  remnants  of  mortality 
which  the  sea  had  exposed  on  the  cliff  burial-ground. 

We  can  go  back,  in  the  history  of  Reculvers,  to  the 
time  of  the  Romans.  Then,  it  was  named  Regulvium. 
It  was  a  military  station  of  importance  in  those  days, 
and  that  it  was  an  inland  place  cannot  be  doubted. 
For,  in  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.,  it  was  a  mile  or  so 
distant  from  the  sea.  From  that  epoch  onwards  there 
has  been  a  chronicle  of  sure  and  swift  wear  and  tear 
by  the  ocean  waves.  The  cliff  is  sand,  with  clay  sand- 
stone in  slabs,  interspersed  among  the  softer  material. 
This  material  presents  no  obstacle  to  the  attack  of  the 
sea :  so  that  we  are  not  surprised  to  discover  that 
when  1781  dawned,  and  a  drawing  of  Reculvers  ap- 
peared in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  the  mile  of  inter- 
vening ground  seen  in  Henry  the  Eighth's  time  had 
dwindled  away  to  a  mere  fraction  of  its  former  size. 

The  view  of  1781  is  instructive.  Taken  from  be- 
hind the  towers,  the  church  is  represented  still  in  its 
entirety.  Looking  towards  Herne  Bay  we  see  an  out- 
jutting  tongue  of  land  on  which  stand  several  houses. 
Among  them  is  an  ancient  chapel,  now  destroyed, 
while  a  cottage  which  stood  between  the  chapel  and 
the  cliff  was  swept  away  in  1782. 

Before  1780  the  ancient  Roman  camp  had  come  to 
grief,  under  the  resistless  march  of  the  waves,  and  for 
a  time,  we  are  told,  the  walls  of  the  camp  held  firmly 


230  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

together  (they  built  stoutly  in  those  days),  and  over- 
hung the  waves,  which  had  undermined  their  founda- 
tions. These  walls  were  nearer  the  sea  by  eighty 
yards  than  the  church,  and  in  1780  they  were  recorded 
as  having  recently  fallen  into  the  sea. 

Then  comes  1804,  when  part  of  the  churchyard, 
with  several  houses,  went  by  the  board.  The  church 
itself  then  entered  on  its  final  stage  of  ruin.  It  was 
dismantled  and  abandoned,  and  its  sister  spires  were 
left  to  form  the  familiar  landmarks  of  the  coast.  A 
drawing  taken  in  1834  shows  us  the  church  very 
much  in  its  present  state.  It  overhangs  the  cliff,  and 
to-day  "  its  artificial  causeway  of  stones  "  alone  pre- 
serves it  from  sharing  the  fate  of  its  once  extensive 
surroundings. 

You  leave  Reculvers  impressed  anew  and  forcibly 
with  the  power  of  the  ocean  on  the  land,  and  you 
learn  a  lesson  of  geological  value,  in  that  you  can 
realise  what  science  means,  when  it  affirms  that,  among 
the  agencies  which  are  ever  sculpturing  and  carving 
the  earth,  few  or  none  excel  in  power  the  waves  of 
the  sea. 


XLIV. 

Ube  Snroafcs  of  tbe  Sea* 

THE  history  of  Reculvers  Church,  just  detailed,  sug- 
gests that  it  may  be  instructive  if  we  attempt  to  dive 
into  the  story  of  sea-action  on  our  coasts  at  large, 
by  way,  perchance,  of  presenting  holiday-seekers  with 
material  for  study  when  they  visit  our  coasts,  and,  at 
least,  of  affording  food  for  geological  thought  at  large. 
Britain,  as  a  "  sea-girt  isle,"  presents  to  us  notable 
illustrations  of  sea-action,  and  the  more  so  because 
the  rocks  of  which  our  various  coasts  are  composed 
exhibit  such  an  infinite  variety  of  texture,  composition, 
and  hardness. 

Naturally,  certain  localities,  whereof  the  rocks  are 
soft  and  easily  worn  away,  present  us  with  more 
typical  illustrations  of  the  ocean  wear-and-tear  than 
those  places  in  which  rocks  of  dense  hardness  form 
the  bulwarks  of  the  island.  But  if  we  inquire  into 
the  fate  of  the  coasts  in  the  far  north,  and  pursue  our 
investigations,  say,  in  the  Shetland  Islands,  we  may 
discover  that,  even  on  the  hardest  rocks,  the  ceaseless 
beat  of  the  waves  in  due  time  makes  a  very  marked 
impression. 

Let  us  think  for  a  moment  what  the  power  of  the 
sea  in  a  storm  means.  In  Shetland,  for  example,  it  is 

calculated,  on  verv  exact  evidence,  that  great  masses 
16 


232  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

of  rock,  weighing  thirteen  tons,  have  been  excavated 
from  the  cliffs  by  the  force  of  the  waves  acting  at  a 
height  of  70  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  When 
a  large  wave  strikes  upon  a  rock,  the  pressure  of  the 
blow  may  equal  three  tons  to  each  square  foot.  Thus- 
wise,  the  air  which  all  rocks  contain  is  forcibly  com- 
pressed, but  as  quickly,  of  course,  expands  when  the 
wave  has  retreated. 

It  is  chiefly  this  compression  and  expansion  of  the 
air  in  rocks  which  aids  and  effects  their  breaking-up 
by  the  waves ;  but  the  sea  has  other  methods  of  pro- 
cedure in  its  attack  on  the  land.  The  boulders  and 
blocks  which  have  become  detached  from  the  rocks 
accumulate  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs.  The  waves  seize 
these  blocks  in  their  grasp,  and  dash  them  with  fury 
against  the  cliffs  ;  using  thus  the  material  it  has  stolen 
from  the  rocks  as  a  kind  of  natural  artillery  wherewith 
fresh  assault  and  battery  are  made  upon  the  land. 
There  is  often  a  definite  plan  of  sea-action  to  be  noted 
in  the  case  of  many  coasts.  An  outjutting  portion  of 
a  cliff  is  first  of  all  tunnelled  by  the  waves,  so  that  a 
natural  archway  is  formed.  Then  the  tunnel  collapses, 
and  its  outermost  part  is  left  standing  as  a  sea-stack 
or  "  needle."  This  stack,  bit  by  bit,  is  worn  down  to 
the  sea-level.  It  grows  small  by  degrees,  until  it 
becomes  a  mere  tangle-covered  rock,  which  will  be 
further  planed  down  and  worn  to  nothingness  by  the 
irresistible  action  of  the  waves. 

The  Yorkshire  coast,  as  well  as  the  east  coasts 
farther  south,  present  us  with  many  characteristic 
historical  examples  of  the  action  of  the  sea  in  robbing 
us  of  the  land.  There  is  one  section  of  the  Yorkshire 
coast,  from  the  mouth  of  the  Tees  to  the  Humber 
estuary,  which  has  suffered  severely  through  sea- 


THE  INROADS  OF  THE  SEA.  233 

action.  Old  maps  of  this  region  do  not  represent  its 
outlines  as  they  exist  to-day,  and  a  comparison  of 
these  ancient  charts  with  modern  ones  teaches  us  an 
eloquent  lesson  of  the  ocean's  power.  The  rocks  in 
the  locality  I  have  just  named  are,  on  the  whole,  of  soft 
character,  and  present  no  adequate  resistance  to  the 
waves.  They  are  composed  of  chalk,  lias,  and  oolite 
strata.  At  Flamborough  we  see  the  chalk  worn  into 
caves  and  into  needles  as  characteristic  as  are  those  of 
the  Isle  of  Wight — which,  themselves,  alter  their  form 
and  dwindle  away  year  by  year.  Between  Flamborough 
Head  and  Spurn  Point  we  meet  with  beds  of  boulder- 
clay,  which  rise  to  a  height  of  a  hundred  feet  or  so. 
This  material  offers  no  resistance  to  the  waves.  The 
tide  scours  and  moves  away  the  gravels  which  might 
otherwise  protect  the  bases  of  the  cliffs,  and  the  wear- 
and-tear  in  this  region  has  therefore  been  typical  in 
its  amount  and  rapidity. 

Whole  tracts  of  land  on  this  Holderness  coast  have 
thus  bodily  disappeared  :  villages,  both  seaport  and 
inland,  have  been  swept  away.  Since  the  time  of  the 
Romans  a  belt  of  land  nearly  three  miles  broad,  has 
been  regarded  as  representing  the  loss  of  territory  on 
this  coast.  The  late  Professor  Philips  calculated  that 
the  cliffs  from  Bridlington  to  Spurn  recede  at  a  rate  of 
two  yards  and  a  quarter  per  year,  this  action  taking 
place  over  an  extent  of  coast-line  measuring  thirty-six 
miles.  Calculated  as  to  the  actual  amount  of  land 
which  the  sea  swallows  up,  we  may  safely  set  the  loss 
down  on  this  part  of  the  coast  at  thirty  acres  annually. 

The  old  maps  of  the  coast  to  which  I  have  alluded 
present  a  melancholy  list  of  details  in  respect  of  their 
failure  to  identify  the  existing  outline  of  the  land. 
Thus,  what  were  once  towns  and  villages  known  as 


234  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Auburn,  Hartburn,  and  Hyde,  in  Yorkshire,  are  now 
sandbanks  in  the  sea.  Owthorne  and  Kilnsea,  ravaged 
by  the  waves,  have  been  rebuilt  inland.  But  Nor- 
folk and  Suffolk  suffer  in  equal  extent  with  York- 
shire itself. 

Speaking  of  Sherringham,  Sir  Charles  Lyell  tells 
us  that  in  1829,  when  he  investigated  the  rate  of  sea- 
waste  there  represented,  some  seventeen  yards  had 
been  swept  away  in  five  years.  The  inn,  built  in 
1805,  had  fifty  yards  between  it  and  the  sea;  but  in 
1829  only  a  small  garden  was  left;  the  builders  of 
the  house  having  vainly  supposed  that  the  sea  would 
take  at  least  seventy  years  to  reach  the  inn.  In  1829, 
we  are  further  informed,  there  was  a  depth  of  water 
sufficient  to  float  a  frigate — 20  feet  at  least — in  the 
harbour,  where,  only  forty-eight  years  previously,  a 
cliff  50  feet  high,  with  houses  upon  it,  had  stood. 

Ancient  Cromer,  it  may  be  related,  is  now  swallowed 
up  in  the  German  Ocean,  and  the  Cromer  cliffs  are 
still  being  worn  away.  But  the  history  of  the  parish 
and  village  of  Eccles,  and  the  villages  of  Shipden  and 
Wimpwell,  is  as  instructive  as  any  that  may  be  re- 
lated of  this  ceaseless  attack  upon  our  coasts.  The 
three  villages  have  themselves  disappeared,  and  the 
whole  coast-line  of  Norfolk  for  a  length  of  twenty 
miles  in  this  locality  has  presented  from  time  im- 
memorial illustrations  of  rapid  sea-wear. 

Of  Eccles  we  read  that  in  1605,  when  pedantic 
James  had  come  to  the  English  throne,  the  good  folk 
of  Eccles  petitioned  the  King  for  a  reduction  of  taxes. 
Their  ground  of  claim  was  very  just  and  reasonable. 
No  fewer  than  300  acres  of  their  land  had  been  swept 
away  by  the  sea,  and  all  their  houses,  save  fourteen, 
had  disappeared.  Lyell  tells  us  that  not  150  acres 


THE  INROADS  OF  THE  SEA.  235 

remain  in  the  parish,  and  hills  of  blown  sand-dunes 
occupy  the  site  of  the  houses  wherein  King  James's 
petitioners  resided.  In  1839  the  tower  of  Eccles 
Church  could  be  seen  rising  from  amid  hills  of  blown 
sand.  In  1862,  after  a  celebrated  November  storm, 
the  sand-dunes  were  seen  to  have  been  blown  inland  ; 
the  tower  was  bared,  and  the  waves  "  washed  the 
foundations  of  the  edifice." 

From  John  o'  Groat's  to  Land's  End,  there  is  scarcely 
a  coast-line  which  will  not  yield  ample  details  of  sea- 
action  to  the  inquiring  mind.  Landslips  may  and  do 
occur  occasionally,  and  may  hurl  cliffs  bodily  seawards  ; 
the  land  itself  may  sink  and  give  up  so  much  of  the 
coast  to  the  waves.  But  beyond  these  actions  in 
constancy  and  power  is  the  work  of  the  sea  itself. 
Indeed,  whether  grinding  the  pebbles  and  particles 
into  the  long  ribbed  lines  of  sand  and  kissing  the 
coast  with  the  gentle  salutation  of  the  summer  wave- 
lets, or  grinding  the  boulders  and  tearing  the  cliffs  in 
its  winter  fury,  the  sea  is  ever  taking  from  us  the  land 
on  which  we  dwell,  and  threatening  our  shores  with  a 
fate  all  the  more  terrible,  because,  relatively,  we  are 
so  powerless  to  avert  it. 


XLV. 

ZTbe  Grottoes  of  1foan* 

ONE  summer  part  of  my  holiday  wanderings  found  me 
in  the  district  of  the  Ardennes.  Whether  the  Belgian 
quarter  was  that  of  Shaksperean  fame,  or  whether 
the  scene  of  Arden  Forest  is  to  be  laid  in  Yorkshire, 
is  a  matter  with  which,  happily  (not  being  an  archaeo- 
logist), I  have  nothing  whatever  to  do.  Suffice  it  to 
say  that,  after  a  week  spent  in  roaming  about  Dinant 
all-picturesque  on  the  Meuse,  and  in  making  journeys 
to  the  ruins  of  Montaigle  and  to  Maredsous  and  else- 
where, I  set  off  for  the  Ardennes  proper,  and  drove 
away  one  fine  August  morning  en  route,  first  of  all, 
for  Rochefort  and  the  famous  grottoes  of  Han. 

In  passing,  let  me  recommend  the  Great  Eastern 
Railway's  tour  to  Dinant  (via  Harwich)  and  the 
Ardennes  as  a  pathway  to  holiday-making  of  pleasant- 
ness combined  with  speed,  and  with  what  the  pater- 
familias will  regard  more  favourably  still — namely, 
high  economy.  Arrived  at  Rochefort,  then,  some  four 
hours'  drive  or  so  from  Dinant,  you  find  yourself  in  a 
tolerably  primitive  Belgian  district.  The  railway  has 
not  succeeded  in  spoiling  it,  although  crowds  flock 
daily  in  summer  to  see  the  grottoes  of  Han,  which,  by 
the  way,  you  may  notice  advertised  on  the  hoardings 
in  the  Belgian  capital  itself. 


THE  GROTTOES  OF  HAN.  237 

There  is  a  grotto  at  Dinant  which  is,  in  its  way, 
well  worth  seeing.  You  enter  it  from  the  main  street 
of  the  village,  and  it  leads  you  right  up  through  the 
limestone  cliffs  to  the  top  thereof,  and  you  can  come 
down  through  the  gardens  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Tete 
d'Or  if  so  happen  you  are  resting  at  that  familiar 
caravanserai.  But  the  Dinant  grotto  "  pales  its  in- 
effectual fires "  before  its  neighbours  of  Han,  which, 
being  tolerably  near  us,  should  certainly  be  visited  by 
all  geologically  minded  Britons  at  least  once  in  their 
lives. 

You  drive  from  Rochefort  to  Han  on  the  usual 
lumbering  diligence  or  char-a-banc,  and  the  drive  is 
pleasant  enough  in  its  way.  It  occupies  the  best  part 
of  an  hour,  and  there  is  the  usual  needless  foreign 
delay  about  starting  for  the  grottoes  when  you  do  get 
to  Han  village  itself.  In  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  at 
Han  hangs  a  whole  set  of  smock-frocks  or  overalls, 
and  visitors  may  don  these  if  they  please.  But  I 
found  no  need  for  these  protective  garments  (as  an 
old  geologist  I  scorned  them,  in  fact),  and  those  ladies 
who  donned  waterproofs  (and  who  wore  thick  boots, 
by  the  way)  came  off  in  their  turn  exceedingly  well. 

Cave-hunting  is  apt  to  be  wet  work  now  and  then, 
and  below  foot  it  is  often  muddy  here  and  there ;  but, 
as  far  as  the  Han  grottoes  are  concerned,  there  need 
be  no  great  fear  at  any  time  on  account  of  one's  gar- 
ments. There  was  quite  a  procession  of  visitors  on 
the  occasion  of  my  visit  to  Han.  Over  eighty  persons 
wended  their  way  through  the  caves.  We  were  a 
motley  crew — English,  Irish,  Scotch,  French,  Belgians, 
Germans,  Spaniards,  one  Russian,  and  the  usual  con- 
tingent of  our  American  cousins.  The  ladies  were 
present  in  fair  proportion,  young  and  old  alike;  but 


238 


GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 


the  prettiest  and  most  winsome  of  them  all  hailed  from 
the  county  of  Cornwall,  and  from  that  fact  made,  I 
suppose,  an  excellent  underground  explorer. 

When  we  did  make  a  start,  we  were  led  a  mile 
through  the  fields  and  copses  by  a  female  guide,  who 
conducts  visitors  to  see  a  rather  interesting  piece  of 
behaviour  on  the  part  of  the  river  Lesse.  Into  a  big 
swallow-hole  the  river  is  seen  to  tumble,  and  is  lost 


**&  35« — Cave  into  which  the  Lesse  disappears. 

to  view.  Not  for  a  mile  or  so  does  it  appear  again, 
calm  and  peaceful,  as  if  nothing  the  worse  for  its 
subterranean  passage.  Then  back  again  you  trudge 
to  the  mouth  of  the  grotto  itself,  where  you  hear  an 
official  recitation  by  the  master-guide  to  the  effect  that 
you  are  to  pay  five  francs  per  head,  with  an  extra 
half-franc  if  you  desire  a  cannon-shot  fired  in  the 
exit  cavern.  Wise  persons  will  not  desire  any  such 


THE  GROTTOES  OF  HAN.  239 

thing.  It  is  only  a  great  deafening  roar — which,  by 
the  way,  you  hear  just  as  well  outside,  as  if  you  had 
paid  your  half-franc  extra  "  for  a  fine  headache,"  as  a 
sober  English  vicar  put  it  last  summer. 

Armed  with  two  paraffin  lamps,  one  at  each  end 
of  a  crossbar,  are  the  lads  and  lasses  who  walk  one 
between  every  two  or  three  visitors  to  show  the  way 
through  the  Stygian  darkness  of  the  caves.  We  fall 
into  line  and  start  off  down  stone  steps  into  the  gloom 
of  the  grotto.  At  first  we  follow  apparently  the  wind- 
ings of  the  river  channels,  and  in  succession  pass 
through  a  series  of  caves,  or  salles,  representing  the 
slower  work  of  water  as  regards  their  excavation. 

The  Salles  Maree  and  Nouvelle  are  thus  passed 
through,  and  then  comes  the  Salle  des  Scarabees, 
deriving  its  name  from  the  beetles  which  fed  on  the 
remains  of  the  prey  devoured  therein  by  the  foxes, 
which  have  given  their  name  to  the  adjoining  Salle 
des  Renards.  Now  and  then  the  guide,  whose  con- 
versation is  of  a  highly  voluble  kind,  stops  to  direct 
attention  to  the  wondrous  limestone  formations  that 
mark  the  interior  of  the  various  caves.  There  are 
stalactites  and  stalagmites  by  the  hundred,  large  and 
small. 

Occasionally  you  may  fancy  you  are  standing  in  the 
nave  of  some  cathedral,  while  at  the  next  step  you 
come  face  to  face  with  a  mass  of  limestone  which  has 
dripped  and  dripped  through  the  long  ages  and  in  the 
silence  and  darkness  until  it  has  come  to  assume  the 
form  of  a  veritable  solidified  sheet  of  water.  Hence 
the  name  of  "  cascade  "  it  has  received.  The  glare 
of  the  lamps  causes  this  mass  of  limestone  to  glisten 
as  if  it  were  frozen  water.  Then  we  ascend  higher, 
until  we  come  to  the  Salle  Vigneron  and  its  curious 


240  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

stalagmites,  which  bear  a  close  likeness  to  the  pipes 
of  an  organ.  Through  grotto  after  grotto  we  pass — 
now  seeing  the  limestone  wrought  into  the  semblance 
of  flags,  in  the  Salle  du  Trophee,  which  has  an  arch 
over  a  hundred  feet  high,  and  now  beholding  the 
magnesium  light  of  the  guide  reflected  in  a  thousand 
sparkling  coruscations  of  light  and  colour  from  the 
sides  of  the  caves. 

Later  on,  winding  steps  lead  us  to  the  Salle  du 
Dome,  and  we  find  ourselves  in  a  vault  200  feet  or 
more  in  height.  Below  the  ledge  on  which  we  stand, 
rolls  in  darkness  the  river.  Away  up  and  beyond  us 
is  a  mystic  arch,  as  distant  from  us  as  the  topmost 
seat  in  the  gallery  of  a  large  theatre  is  from  the  stage ; 
and  at  the  top  of  the  arch  is  a  mass  of  stalagmitic 
rock,  called  Pluto's  Throne.  Now,  the  guide,  torch 
in  hand,  mounts  away  upwards  to  the  throne.  Your 
eye  follows  him  as  he  leaps  from  peak  to  peak  like 
some  weird  spirit,  and  finally,  as  he  rests  on  the  throne 
torch  in  hand,  he  has  lost  everything  that  is  human  in 
aspect,  and  appears  from  afar  as  the  sombre  guardian 
and  king  of  the  nether  world. 

Below  us,  another  guide  dives  down  into  the  depths, 
and  by  the  light  of  his  torch  shows  us  the  black  river 
flowing  silently  on.  On  this  veritable  Styx  we  all 
embark  in  two  huge  boats,  and  the  plash  of  the  oars 
sounds  weird  and  strange  in  the  caves.  Ahead  of  us, 
at  last,  we  perceive  a  curious  pale-green  light,  resem- 
bling moonlight,  but  with  a  colour  such  as  Luna's  rays 
never  possess  ;  and  a  few  strokes  of  the  oars  bring  us 
out  into  the  light  of  a  glorious  summer's  afternoon, 
after  our  two  hours'  travel  through  the  earth.  There 
is  a  walk  of  half  a  mile  or  so  back  to  the  hotel,  and 
finally  we  board  the  diligence  arid  trundle  back  to 


THE  GROTTOES  OF  HAN.  241 

Rochefort,  in  time  for  the  inevitable  poulet  and  veal 
of  the  Belgian  rural  table-d'hote. 

This  is  a  brief  account,  and  a  very  imperfect  one 
to  boot,  of  a  very  notable  excursion.  To  those  of  my 
readers  who  are  in  want  of  a  new  sensation  for  Easter 
or  summer  holidays,  I  say,  "  Go  to  Han  and  see  the 
grottoes."  There  you  will  be  taught,  as  nothing  else 
can  teach  you,  what  underground  water,  aided  by  the 
dissolving  action  of  carbonic  acid  gas,  effects  in  the 
way  of  eating  out  huge  caverns  in  the  limestone  rocks. 
Truly,  it  is  the  only  fashion  in  which  you  may  study 
geology  this — by  interrogating  Dame  Nature  per- 
sonally, and  seeing  the  changes  she  is  able  to  induce 
when,  through  the  operation  of  the  element  of  time, 
the  waters  are  made  to  wear  the  stones,  and  the  huge 
cliffs  are  tunnelled  into  the  grottoes  and  the  caves  of 
to-day. 


XLVI. 

Coal  at  H>o\>er. 

ALTHOUGH  ordinary  folks  may  not  be  very  well  versed 
in  the  facts  of  geological  science,  the  announcement 
that  coal  had  been  found  at  Dover  must  have  created 
some  considerable  amount  of  surprise.  There  is  no 
district  which  less  resembles  the  Black  Country  than 
the  coast  of  the  Channel,  and  it  may  be  said  that  the 
unexpected,  which  always  happens  according  to  popular 
tradition,  caused  as  much  sensation  in  the  ranks  of 
science  as  it  did  beyond  the  confines  of  the  learned 
circles.  Yet  the  fact  remains  that  below  the  chalk 
cliffs  which  form  the  characteristic  mark  of  Albion  the 
Perfidious,  the  black  diamonds  have  been  discovered, 
and  a  new  source  of  industry — such  as  will  not  please 
Mr.  Ruskin  at  all — is  likely  to  be  opened  up  close  by 
the  historic  Cinque  Port  itself. 

The  men  of  Kent,  instead  of  importing  their  coals 
from  afar,  may,  in  their  turn,  take  to  selling  their  car- 
boniferous products  to  their  less  fortunate  neighbours, 
and  a  geological  discovery  may,  in  truth,  thus  revolu- 
tionise a  whole  county.  It  seems  that  the  suspicion 
that  coal  was  to  be  found  beneath  the  chalk,  and 
within  accessible  distance  of  the  earth's  surface,  is  no 
recent  speculation  in  geology.  Some  thirty-five  years 
ago  Mr.  Godwin  Austen  laid  before  the  Geological 


COAL  AT  DOVER.  243 

Society  of  London  his  views  on  this  subject,  and 
declared  his  belief  in  the  existence  of  the  valued 
mineral  below  rocks  from  which  the  coal  was  ordinarily 
presumed  to  be  separated  by  many  thousands  of  feet 
of  different  rocks.  To  enable  us  to  understand  the 
bold  nature  of  this  speculation  of  Mr.  Austen's,  we 
require  to  bear  in  mind  the  teachings  of  geology  con- 
cerning the  succession  of  the  rocks  which  compose 
the  crust  of  our  earth. 

First  of  all,  let  us  note  that  the  various  ages  or 
periods  into  which  time  past  has  been  mapped  out  by 
geologists,  correspond  to  or  with  as  many  groups  of 
rocks,  each  marked  by  its  own  special  structure,  fossils, 
and  other  characteristics.  Then,  in  the  second  place, 
we  have  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  order  in  which  one 
rock-formation  succeeds  another  never  alters.  Take 
as  an  example  of  this  stable  order  of  the  rocks  the 
following  :  the  Coal  rocks,  in  their  natural  order,  lie 
above  the  Devonian  or  Old  Red  Sandstone,  while,  in 
turn,  they  are  overlaid  by  the  Permian  rocks. 

Thus,  if  we  could  see  in  any  district  a  section 
showing  the  complete  thicknesses  of  these  three  rock- 
formations  as  they  were  deposited,  we  should  find  the 
oldest  or  Devonian  strata  lying  lowest,  the  Coal  in  the 
middle,  and  the  Permian  above  the  Coal,  this  last  for- 
mation being  the  youngest  or  most  recently  formed 
of  the  three.  Suppose,  further,  that  a  person  on 
whose  estate  the  Devonian  rocks  came  to  the  surface 
consulted  a  mining  engineer  as  to  the  probability  of 
coal  being  found  beneath  the  soil  of  his  possessions, 
it  is  very  clear  what  the  reply  of  the  scientist  would 
be.  He  would  say  that  as  the  Coal  is  a  younger  rock 
than  the  Devonian,  and  was  therefore  formed  after  the 
latter,  and  as  it  lies  in  its  natural  order  above  the 


244  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

Devonian  series,  to  spend  money  in  boring  for  Coal 
through  the  Devonian  would  be  as  futile  a  proceeding 
as  that  of  trying  to  lift  water  with  a  sieve. 

Suppose,  however,  that  the  surface  rocks  of  the 
estate  were  of  Permian  age,  and  that  these  latter  rocks 
were  not  inconveniently  thick,  then  the  prospect  of 
finding  coal  measures  would  amount  well-nigh  to  a 
certainty.  It  is  this  succession  of  the  rocks  which 
forms  the  basis  of  all  geological  calculations  about  the 
finding  of  minerals  and  concerning  the  nature  of  the 
rocks  which  occur  in  any  locality.  It  is  this  very 
thought  which  has  to  be  taken  into  account  in  dis- 
cussing the  occurrence  of  coal  at  Dover. 

If  we  inquire  into  the  order  of  the  rocks  which  crop 
up  to  the  surface  at  the  coast,  we  find  them,  of  course, 
to  belong  to  the  Chalk  series.  Now,  the  Chalk  is  a 
long  way  younger  than  the  Coal.  It  belongs  to  quite 
a  distinct  period  of  the  earth's  history  from  that  which 
witnessed  the  growth  and  luxuriance  of  the  Coal 
vegetation.  Tracing  the  succession  of  the  rocks  from 
the  Coal  to  the  Chalk,  we  find  the  Permian  lying,  as 
we  have  seen,  above  the  Coal.  Then  we  pass  upwards 
in  point  of  position,  and  onwards  in  point  of  time,  to 
the  Trias  formations. 

After  and  above  the  Trias  come  the  Oolite  rocks, 
and,  finally,  above  the  Oolite  lie  the  Chalk  rocks  them- 
selves. These  formations  are  divided  each  into  a 
whole  series  of  subordinate  strata  marked  by  local  and 
other  peculiarities ;  but  the  main  point  for  us  to  keep 
in  view  is  the  plain  fact  that  if  the  Coal  rocks  are 
separated  from  the  Chalk  by  the  Permian,  Trias,  and 
Oolite  formations,  which  attain  many  thousands  of  feet 
in  thickness,  it  would  seem  a  practically  hopeless  idea 
to  expect  to  be  able  to  reach  the  Coal  by  any  amount 


COAL  AT  DOVER.  245 

of  boring   capable   of  being   carried    out    by   human 
appliances. 

Yet  there  is  one  consideration  which  comes  to  the 
aid  of  the  geologist,  who  has  to  face  many  problems 
of  very  perplexing  kind.  What  should  we  say,  let  us 
ask,  if  certain  of  the  rocks  lying  in  the  natural  order 
of  things,  between  the  Coal  and  the  Chalk,  happened 
to  be  absent  ?  What  if  the  Trias  and  Oolite,  together 
with  the  older  and  scarcer  Permian,  had  somehow  or 
other  slipped  out  of  the  series  altogether  ?  What  if 
some  geological  cataclysm  had  swept  them  away,  so 
that  at  Dover  and  elsewhere  the  earth  should  see  the 
faces  of  these  rocks  no  more  for  ever  ?  Clearly,  if 
these  suppositions  possess  any  grains  of  reality  at  all, 
the  effect  of  the  thinning  away  of  the  rocks  between 
the  Coal  and  the  Chalk  would  practically  be  to  bring 
these  two  formations  into  relatively  close  proximity. 

Now,  this  is  precisely  what  we  know  has  occurred 
elsewhere.  Mr.  Godwin  Austen  long  ago,  told 
geologists  that,  from  his  study  of  the  coalfields  of 
Somerset  and  South  Wales,  and  of  Belgium  and 
Northern  France  as  well,  he  was  certain  coal  also  lay 
buried  under  the  rocks  of  the  intervening  regions.  If 
this  idea  were  to  be  entertained,  then  it  followed  that 
underneath  the  white  cliffs  of  Dover  there  was  a  pos- 
sibility of  coal  being  found.  The  only  question  re- 
maining then  came  to  be,  Could  it  be  reached  from 
the  surface  so  as  to  make  it  available  for  the  use  of 
man  ?  Again  there  was  support  for  this  idea  in  the 
fact  that  coal  is  being  worked  in  both  France  and 
Belgium,  beneath  the  same  chalk  rocks  which  environ 
our  shores. 

There  had  been  borings  carried  on  in  Sussex  in  the 
Wealden  formations,  which,  as  the  lowest  of  the  Chalk, 


246  GLIMPSES  OF  NATURE. 

were  supposed  to  afford  the  best  chance  of  getting  at 
the  strata  below  ;  but  this  work  had  to  be  abandoned 
on  account  of  an  accident  to  the  boring  tubes,  after 
some  1900  feet  of  strata  had  been  passed  through. 
In  the  London  district  a  noteworthy  observation 
showed  that  Devonian  rocks  older  than  the  Coal  had 
been  met  with  at  about  1000  feet  from  the  surface. 
Clearly,  then,  it  was  a  hopeful  enough  prospect  to 
expect  that  the  Coal  itself  might  be  met  with  under 
similar  and  favourable  auspices. 

The  boring  operations,  as  all  the  world  knows,  were 
duly  resumed  at  Dover,  and  the  section  made  at 
Shakspeare's  Cliff  began  with  the  Lower  Grey  Chalk, 
and,  after  500  feet,  passed  to  the  end  of  that  formation. 
Then  succeeded  660  feet  of  thickness  of  strata,  belong- 
ing to  the  Oolite  rocks,  which,  as  we  saw,  lie  below  the 
Chalk.  The  crucial  point  came  next  in  order.  What 
lay  below  the  Oolite  formation  and  beneath  the 
Bathonian  measures  which  formed  the  lowest  set  of 
Oolitic  age  ?  The  reply  of  the  boring  came  clear  and 
distinct — in  a  single  word,  Coal. 

Professor  Boyd  Dawkins,  who  has  all  along  taken 
a  deep  interest  in  the  solution  of  this  interesting 
problem  of  geology,  tells  us  that  the  coal  measures  at 
Dover  were  struck  at  a  distance  of  1 1 80  feet  from  the 
top  of  the  bore-hole.  This  is  68  feet  below  the  point 
at  which  the  coal  was  met  with  in  the  Calais  borings. 
The  Wealden  strata,  he  further  tells  us,  are  thinned 
off  in  a  remarkable  manner,  inasmuch  as  they  are  seen 
at  Hythe  and  Folkestone,  but  at  Dover  are  wanting, 
and  this  absence  of  the  Weald  rendered  the  work  of 
getting  at  the  coal  all  the  more  favourable. 

The  Dover  coal  is  said  to  be  of  good  blazing  variety, 
and  one  may,  therefore,  anticipate  the  time  when  Kent 


COAL  AT  DOVER.  247 

coal  will  be  quoted  in  the  lists  of  the  London  dealers 
in  the  black  diamonds.  This  is  the  economic  side  of 
things ;  but  doubtless  our  coal-dealing  friends  will 
take  good  care  that  the  price  of  coals  is  not  at  all 
reduced  by  the  fruits  of  geological  discovery.  The 
scientific  side  is  more  to  the  point  at  present,  and  we 
may  learn  how  exactly  scientific  prophecies  come  true 
in  the  case  of. the  Dover  coal.  Scientific  prophecies, 
however,  have  this  great  characteristic,  that  they  are 
founded  on  certain  pieces  of  evidence  rather  than  upon 
the  misty  convictions  and  beliefs  of  dreamers  who  are 
always  prophesying  about  events  that  are  never  likely 
to  occur — in  our  time,  at  least — and  among  them  the 
end  of  the  world,  which  I  understand  a  hopeful  and 
sanguine  professional  prophet  has  decided  will  happen 
in  the  year  1893. 

Science  reasons,  in  other  words,  about  what  is  still 
in  the  dark,  from  the  facts  she  has  ascertained.  In 
this  respect  the  geologists  at  Dover  took  the  advice 
of  Hosea  Biglow,  who  wisely  advises  nobody  to  pro- 
phesy unless  he  knows.  The  great  advantage  of  this 
procedure  is  that  one's  prophecies  are  always  certain 
to  come  true. 
17 


THE   END. 


STEREOTYPED    BY    BALLANTYNE,    HANSON    AND   CO. 
EDINBURGH    AND    LONDON 


THE   EAUTH  A1STD 

The  Story  of  the  Earth  and  Man.  By  J.  W.  DAWSON, 
LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  F.G.S.,  Principal  and  Vice-Chancellor 
of  McGill  University,  Montreal.  New  Edition  with 
Corrections  and  Additions.  With  a  Colored  Diagram 
and  Illustrations.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


This  little  book  is,  on  the  whole,  the  best  popular  geology  that  has 
ever  come  from  the  press.  The  subject  is  one  that  possesses  the  strong- 
est possible  interest  for  the  writer  and  awakens  his  greatest  enthusiasm. 
One  of  the  strongest  and  most  interesting  chapters  in  the  volume  is  the 
first  of  the  two  on  primitive  man.  The  whole  book  is  remarkable  for  its 
simplicity,  clearness,  interest,  and  vitality. — Mail  and  Express,  N.  Y. 

The  work  is  full  of  absorbing  interest. — Toledo  Blade. 

The  book  is  a  recognized  authority  on  the  subject  of  which  it  treats, 
and  worthy  of  a  place  in  the  library. — S.  S.  Journal,  N.  Y. 

We  advise  any  of  our  readers  who  have  been  carried  away  with  the 
evolution  craze — as  something  that  indicates  advanced  thinking- — to  read 
this  most  valuable  work. —  Christian  Standard,  Cincinnati,  0. 

An  excellent  summary  of  geological  history. — Boston  Literary  World. 

The  author  is  an  able  opponent  of  the  theories  of  the  evolutionists, 
and  his  discussion  of  the  theme  is  interesting.  His  account  of  the  lowest 
and  earliest  form  of  animal  life  as  exemplified  in  what  he  calls  the 
"  dawn  animal,"  found  by  him  in  fossil  state  in  Canada,  is  of  special  in- 
terest.— Brooklyn  Eagle. 

The  last  two  chapters  of  the  work  on  "  Primitive  Man  "  contain  an 
unanswerable  argument  against  the  Darwinian  theory  of  evolution,  and 
will  be  found  invaluable  by  all  who  are  called  to  face  that  phase  of 
modern  infidelity.  We  most  earnestly  commend  the  volume. —  Chicago 
Interior. 

This  work  has  stood  the  test  of  criticism,  and  has  won  its  way  to  the 
position  of  a  standard  text-book.  The  learned  author  does  not  accept 
theories  for  scientific  facts,  nor  permit  himself  to  be  led  away  by  mere 
clamor.  He  goes  to  the  bottom  of  things,  and  gets  at  the  truth  if  possi- 
ble. He  does  not  presume  to  build  a  scientific  system  upon  finely  wrought 
suppositions.  What  is  known  of  the  history  of  the  earth  and  man  the 
student  will  find  in  this  book.  It  comes  up  to  date  with  its  facts.  We 
do  not  know  its  equal  as  a  text-book  on  this  subject.  It  is  sufficiently 
illustrated,  and  beautifully  printed,  and  has  a  copious  index. — San  Fran- 
cisco Christian  Advocate. 

We  cannot  but  give  the  greatest  respect  to  the  writer  of  this  book, 
who  presents  so  vividly  the  history  of  the  world's  progress,  and  we  can- 
not but  express  admiration  for  that  clear  and  precise  style  he  possesses. 
—N.  Y.  Times.  

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  N.  Y. 

fig^"  HARPER  &  BROTHERS  will  send  the  above  work,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part 
of  the  United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


THE   ORIGIN   OF  THE  WOULD. 

The  Origin  of  the  World,  according  to  Revelation  and 
Science.  By  J.  W.  DAWSON,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  F.G.S. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

The  revised  work  is  a  cyclopaedia  that  will  be  welcome  to  all  who  de- 
sire a  reconciliation  of  science  and  religion,  in  which  the  Scriptures  re- 
tain their  authority.  The  appendices  contain  valuable  scientific  criti- 
cism, and  the  treatise  meets  the  controversy  as  it  is  to-day. — North 
American,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

To  all  reverent  students  of  the  Bible  this  work  will  prove  a  valuable 
boon  in  enabling  them  to  determine  the  precise  import  of  Biblical  refer- 
ences to  creation,  and  how  these  may  be  harmonized  with  modern  dis- 
covery. ...  In  an  appendix  the  volume  furnishes  several  short  essays  on 
special  points  collateral  to  the  general  subject,  and  important  to  the  so- 
lution of  some  of  its  phases. — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

Briefly  described,  the  book  is  a  singularly  suggestive  study  of  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis  considered  as  an  inspired  revelation  in  the  light  of 
modern  science. — Evening  Post,  N.  Y. 

The  book  will  commend  itself  to  both  scholars  and  the  common  peo- 
ple ;  for,  while  the  latter  can  understand,  the  former  can  enjoy  it. —  The 
Churchman,  N".  Y. 

Although  most  scientists  and  many  theologians  will  doubtless  differ 
with  the  author's  conclusions,  yet  he  has  shown  so  much  ingenuity  and 
care  in  sustaining  them,  and  is  so  evidently  inspired  by  a  regard  for  what 
he  desires  to  be  the  truth,  that  his  book  will  command  the  attention  of 
candid  inquirers  of  whatever  shade  of  belief. — Boston  Globe. 

Mr.  Dawson  has  devoted  much  study  to  the  treatment  of  the  subject 
discussed  in  this  volume.  He  has  sought  to  get  at  the  truth  alone.  .  .  . 
The  writer's  style  is  clear  and  vigorous,  and  he  has  patiently  wrought 
out  his  theories  from  a  wide  and  comprehensive  range  of  observation. — 
Union- Argus,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

The  work  treats  of  the  mystery  of  "  origins,"  the  beginning  of  crea- 
tion, the  "  desolate  void,"  the  various  created  objects — light,  land,  plants, 
animals,  and  finally  man,  whose  unity  of  origin  and  antiquity  are  made 
the  subject  of  two  chapters.  An  appendix,  containing  short  essays  on 
special  points,  is  a  valuable  feature  of  the  book. —  Observer,  N.  Y. 

Whether  the  reader  accepts  Dr.  Dawson's  conclusions  or  not,  he  will 
find  the  work  a  wonderfully  suggestive  study,  and  singularly  fair  in  its  treat- 
ment of  the  opinions  and  theories  it  antagonizes. — .FVeeP/'^Detroi^Mich. 

As  a  summary  of  creation,  the  book  is  lively  and  fresh.  It  will  be 
found  interesting  and  profitable  to  all  students  of  this  alluring  theme. — 
Christian  Advocate,  N.  Y. 

At  least  no  student  of  theology  can  afford  not  to  possess  this  most  ex- 
cellent work. — Piltsburg  Dispatch. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  N.  Y. 

=*  HARPKU  &  BROTHERS  will  send  the  above  work,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part 
of  the  United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


